UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00008677808 


Thjs  booK  ,s  due  a,  ft.  ™™™*™Z?* 


DATE 
DUE 


f!  5 


RET. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


Form  No.  513, 
Rev.  1184 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/poemsofpaulhamilhayn 


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POEMS 


PAUL    HAMILTON    HATNE 


Complete  IHoitiflix 


WITH    NUMEROUS    ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 


J\/M  D.    LOTHROP    AND     COMPANY 

32  Franklin  Street,  corner  of  Hawley 


1882 


THE  UNiv; 


Af  UiAfiei.  HtLL 


Copyright,  1832, 
Bv  D.  Lothkop  and  Company. 


press  OF 
L.    N.    FREDERICKS. 

31  Hawley  St.,  Boston. 


<3- 


COLONEL  JOHN   G.  JAMES, 

PRESIDENT    OF    THE    STATE    AGRICULTURAL    AND    MECHANICAL    COLLEGE    OF    TEXAS, 

i&bcse  $crses, 

IN   WHICH  HE  HAS  TAKEN   SO  UNSELFISH   AN  INTEREST, 

ARE 

AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


It  had  little  to  do  with  Byron's  success  as  a  poet  that  he  was  born 
in  the  purple  of  the  English  aristocracy ;  or  with  the  quality  of  Shel- 
ley's genius  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  Sir  Timothy,  who  prided  himself 
on  a  descent  from  a  long  line  of  British  squires ;  or  that  Algernon 
Swinburne's  father  was  a  baronet.  And  yet  if  our  poets  have  gentle 
blood  in  their  veins,  other  things  being  equal,  we  prefer  that  they 
should  have  it. 

Good  birth,  as  a  general  thing,  argues  good  breeding,  refinement, 
education,  fixed  social  position,  and  a  wide  margin  of  generous  leisures; 
all  of  which  have  much  to  do  with  the  outcome  of  a  poet's  life. 

We  do  not  believe  that  Tennyson  would  ever  have  written  as  he 
has,  if  it  had  been  his  fortune  to  labor  for  his  daily  bread.  Even  had 
the  genius  all  been  there,  the  wide  leisures  would  have  been  wanting, 
and  he  would  have  produced  his  poems,  not  as  Goethe,  at  his  "  unhasting 
ease,"  —  absolutely  free  from  all  exigence,  —  but  under  the  pressure  of 
a  goad,  which  would  have  destroyed  all  their  beautiful  spontaneity. 

It  is  therefore  to  the  advantage  of  our  poet,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne, 
that  he  had  ancestors.  It  may  sound  somewhat  unrepublican  perhaps, 
to  hear  him  wish,  as  he  does  in  one  of  his  keen  sonnets,  that  these  same 
ancestors  had  been  content  to  stay  in  their  four-hundred-year-old 
Shropshire  Manor-House,  enjoying  the  positive  good  England  gave 
them,  rather  than  go  sailing  over  seas  in  quest  of  what  might  be  of 
questionable  benefit ;  but  we  can  forgive  him,  in  view  of  his  antecedents 
on  this  side  the  water,  of  which  he  may  be  proud  as  well.  His  English 
progenitors  settled,  early  in  colonial  days,  in  Charleston,  South  Car- 
olina, and  from  the  first  were  of  importance  in  the  civil  affairs  of  the 
young  State.  They  furnished  noble  patriots,  who  shed  their  blood  in 
Revolutionary  days,  for  the  liberties  of  their  adopted  country,     The 


vi  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

name  of  the  renowned  statesman  and  orator,  Robert  G.  Hayne,  who 
was  the  poet's  uncle,  has  become  the  possession  of  the  country. 
While  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  he  was  not  afraid  to  match 
his  strength  with  Webster's,  and  he  was  governor  of  South  Carolina 
when  to  be  governor  of  the  Palmetto  State  was  an  honor  worth  the 
winning. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  the  only  child  of  Lieutenant  Hayne,  a 
naval  officer,  who  died  at  sea  when  his  son  was  an  infant ;  his  mother, 
recently  deceased,  was  a  South  Carolina  lady,  of  good  English  and 
Scotch  descent.  He  wTas  born  in  Charleston,  January  1st,  1830,  and 
educated  at  Charleston  College,  from  which  he  wras  graduated.  Inher- 
iting the  prestige  of  a  noble  name,  high  position,  and  a  sufficient 
amount  of  Avealth,  the  world  was  before  the  youth,  and  he  was  free  to 
choose  his  path.  From  earliest  boyhood  his  fondness  for  literature, 
particularly  poetry,  was  pronounced,  and  there  was  everything  around 
him  to  foster  this  love.  The  Charleston  of  thirty-five  years  ago  was  a 
very  different  place  from  the  Charleston  of  to-day.  The  old  Huguenot 
element,  with  its  aristocratic  names  and  associations,  was  strong,  and 
the  large  admixture  of  good  English  blood  helped  to  make  its  people 
just  a  little  exclusive.  Boston  herself  did  not  gather  the  mantle  of  her 
self-importance  in  a  more  queenly  manner  about  her  than  did  this  city 
by  the  sea.  There  was  a  decided  literary  element,  too,  among  its 
higher  classes.  Legare's  wit  and  scholarship  brightened  its  social 
circle ;  Calhoun's  deep  shadow  loomed  over  it  from  his  plantation  at 
Fort  Hill ;  Gilmore  Simms's  genial  culture  broadened  its  sympathies. 
The  latter  was  the  Maecenas  to  a  band  of  brilliant  youths  who  used  to 
meet  for  literary  suppers  at  his  beautiful  home;  and  here  it  was  that 
the  love  for  old  Elizabethan  lore,  and  the  study  of  the  classics  of  the 
English  tongue,  which  has  always  characterized  Mr.  Hayne,  found  one 
of  its  best  stimulants. 

No  sooner  had  he  graduated  than  he  threw  himself  actively  into 
literary  life.  He  became  connected  with  the  journalism  of  the  city, 
and  when  the  enthusiastic  group  of  young  scholars  established  a  Lit- 
erary Monthly  Magazine  (Russell's)  Mr.  Hayne  was  appointed  its 
editor. 

His  first  volume  of  Poems  was  published  by  the  old  house  of  Tick- 
nor  &  Co.,  Boston,  in  1855,  when  he  was  some  twenty-five  years  old, 
his  second  in  1857,  and  his  third  in  1860.  These  all  met  with  such 
success  as  encouraged  him  to  adopt  fully  a  literary  life  as  his  vocation. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  vii 

In  the  meantime  he  had  married  Miss  Mary  Middleton  Michel,  of 
Charleston,  the  daughter  of  an  eminent  French  physician,  who  received 
a  gold  medal  from  Napoleon  the  Third,  for  services  under  the  first 
Napoleon  at  the  battle  of  Leipsic.  Of  the  poet's  wife  it  is  but  the 
scantest  justice  to  say  that  she  has  been  the  inspiration,  the  stay,  the 
joy  of  his  life.  No  poet  ever  was  more  blessed  in  a  wife,  and  she  it  is, 
who,  by  her  self-renunciation,  her  exquisite  sympathy,  her  positive, 
material  help,  her  bright  hopefulness,  has  made  endurable  the  losses 
and  trials  that  have  crowded  Mr.  Hayne's  life.  Those  who  know  how 
to  read  between  the  lines  can  see  everywhere  the  influence  of  this 
irradiating  and  stimulating  presence. 

Then  came  the  disasters  of  the  civil  war.  Mr.  Hayne,  whose 
health,  delicate  from  his  childhood,  would  not  allow  him  to  take  field 
service,  became  an  aid  on  Governor  Pickens's  staff.  During  the  bom- 
bardment of  his  native  city,  his  beautiful  home  was  burned  to  the 
ground,  and  his  large,  handsome  library  utterly  lost.  Even  the  few 
valuables,  such  as  the  old  family  silver,  which  he  succeeded  in  securing 
and  removing  to  a  bank  in  Columbia  for  safe-keeping,  were  swept  away 
in  the  famous  "march  to  the  sea;"  and  there  was  nothing  left  for  the 
homeless  and  ruined  man  but  exile  among  the  "  Pine  Barrens "  of 
Georgia.  There  he  established  himself,  in  utter  seclusion,  in  a  veritable 
cottage  (or  rather  shanty,  dignified  at  first  as  "Hayne's  Roost"), 
behind  whose  screens  of  vines,  among  the  peaches,  melons,  and  straw- 
berries of  his  own  raising,  he  has  fought  the  fight  of  life  with  uncom- 
plaining bravery,  and  persisted  in  being  happy. 

Here,  then,  at  iCopse  Hill,"  nested  amid  his  greenery  and  his  pines, 
our  poet  has  lived  for  fifteen  years,  —  content  with  little  of  this  world's 
gear,  happy  in  his  chosen  work,  writing  as  his  frail  health  would  permit, 
and  in  manly  independence.  In  1872,  the  Lippincotts  published  his 
Legends  and  Lyrics,  and  in  1873  his  edition  of  his  friend  Henry  Tim- 
rod's  Poems  appeared,  accompanied  by  one  of  the  most  pathetic  bio- 
graphical memorials  of  which  literature  gives  an  example.  In  1875, 
The  Mountain  of  the  Lovers  was  published.  A  Life  of  Gilmore  Simms 
(still  in  MS.)  w^as  also  written,  with  Memorial  Sketches  of  Governor 
Hayne  and  Mr.  Legare, — so  that  these  years  of  seclusion  have  been 
well  filled  up  with  literary  labor ;  and  during  the  past  five  years  the 
names  of  not  many  writers  have  appeared  more  frequently,  jDerhaps,  in 
the  pages  of  our  current  literature,  than  that  of  the  recluse  of  "Copse 
Hill."     Here  he  has  interpreted  Nature,  we  think,  with  as  clear  an 


viii  BWQEAriUUAL   SKETCH. 

insight  as  the  poet  of  Rydal  Mount.  He  has  made  the  melancholy 
moanings  of  his  Georgia  pines  sob  through  his  verses.  He  has  given 
voices  to  the  Midnight  Thunder ;  to  the  Windless  Rain;  to  the  Mus- 
cadines of  the  Southern  Forests  ;  to  their  Woodland  Phases;  to  the 
Aspects  of  the  Pines,  as  has  not  been  heretofore  clone. 

'It  were  superfluous  to  enter  upon  any  criticism  of  his  poems,  nor  is 
this  the  place  for  it.  They  are  left  with  the  reader,  who,  if  he  cannot, 
of  himself,  find  therein  the  aromatic  freshness  of  the  woods,  —  the 
swaying  incense  of  the  cathedral-like  aisles  of  pines, — the  sough  of 
dying  summer  winds,  —  the  glint  of  lonely  pools,  and  the  brooding 
notes  of  leaf-hidden  mocking-birds,  —  would  not  be  able  to  discern 
them,  however  carefully  the  critic  might  point  them  out. 

Margaret  J.  Prestos 


CONTENTS. 


YOUTHFUL   POEMS. 


The  Will  and  the  Wing 

'•  The  Laughing  Hours  before  her  Feet ! 

Eve  of  the  Bridal 

My  Father 

Song 

Song 

By  the  Grave 

Song  of  the  Xaiads        .... 

Lethe       .  

The  Realm  of  Rest        .... 
The  Island  in  the  South 

Ode 

Queen  Galena 

The  Poet's  Trust  in  his  Sorrow  . 


The  Brook 11 

Mature  the  Consoler 14 

The  Soul  Conflict 16 

The  Presentiment 16 

The  Two  Summers 16 

Lines IT 

Song 18 

On  a  Portrait IS 


The  Shadow 

The  Winter  Winds  may  wildly  rave 
Under  Sentence     .... 
The  Tillage-  Beauty 
After  Death 


SONNETS. 


October 

Life  and  Death 

>_LSlielley 

Poets  of  the  Olden  Time      .... 
"  Xow  while  the  Rear  Guard  "   . 
"  Pent  in  this  Common  Sphere  " 
"Between    the    Sunken    Sun    and    the 

New  Moon  " 

Ancient  Myths 

O  God  !  What  Glorious  Seasons  Bless  Thy 

World! 


'■Along  the  Path  Thy  Bleeding  Feet" 

"  Too  oft  the  Poet  in  Elaborate  Verse  : 

Mountain  Sonnets 

Composed  in  Autumn  . 

Great  Poets  and  Small 

Mv  Study        .... 


i-l'o  W.  H.  H.    . 
Lines        .... 
"  An  Idle  Poet  Dreaming 


28 
28 
20 
29 
30 
30 
30 
31 
31 


DRAMATIC   SKETCHES. 


Antonio  Melidori  ...         ...  35 

Allan  Herbert 46 

From  The  Conspirator,  an  Unpublished 

Tragedy 49 

Experience  in  Poverty         .        .        .        .51 

The  True  Philosophy 52 

Love's  Caprices ~>2 

Creeds 54 

The  Universality  of  Grief    ....  54 


The  Penitent 

.      54 

Dramatic  Fragment 

55 

Reward  of  Fickleness   . 

.      55 

A  Character 

.      56 

Morals  of  Desperation . 

58 

The  Condemned     .... 

.      58 

Antipathies     ..... 

.      60 

Misconstruction     .... 

.      61 

CONTENTS. 


POEMS   OF   THE   WAR. 


My  Mother-land 65 

Ode 67 

Charleston 71 

Stuart 72 

Beyond  the  Potomac 73 

Beauregard's  Appeal    .....  74 

The  Substitute 75 

Battle  of  Charleston  Harbor       ...  77 


Charleston  at  the  close  of  1863  ...  78 

Scene  in  a  Country  Hospital        ...  79 

j^icksburg  — a  Ballad 80- 

The  Little  White  Glove        ....  80 

Stonewall  Jackson 82 

Sonnets 84 

Our  Martyrs 85 

Forgotten 86 


LEGENDS   AND   LYEICS. 


Daphles  —  an  Argive  Story 

Ae'thra 

Renewed 

Krishna  and  his  Three  Handmaiden 
Under  the  Pine  (To  the  Memory  of  1 

Timrod) 
A  Dream  of  the  South  Wind 
In  the  Mist     .... 
A  Summer  Mood  . 
Midnight         .... 
The  Bonny  Brown  Hand 
Sonnets  : 

The  Cottage  on  the  Hill   . 

November    .... 

Sylvan  Musings  —  in  May 

Poets    . 

Sonnet . 

The  Phantom  Bells 

The  Life  Forest . 

Cloud  Fantasies . 

Sonnets 
Fire  Pictures 
An  Anniversary     . 
From  the  Woods    . 
Dolce  far  Niente  . 
Cambyses  and  the  Macrobian  Bow 
'By  the  Autumn  Sea 
The  Wife  of  Brittany 
The  River 

The  Story  of  Glaucus  the  Thess 
The  Nest 
Not  Dead 


Sonnet     . 

Marguerite     . 

Apart 

The  Lotos  and  the  Lily 

Windless  Rain 

"  In  Utroque  Fidelis  " 

Nature  Betrothed  and 

Chloris     . 

Fortunio 

A  Feudal  Picture  . 

The  Warning  . 


Wedded 


alian 


89 
100 

100 
102 

103 
105 
105 
106 
106 
106 

107 
107 
108 
108 
108 
109 
110 
110 
110 
111 
114 
114 
115 
116 
118 
118 
137 
138 
142 
142 
143 
143 
144 
144 
146 
146 
147 
147 
148 
150 
152 


Drifting  . 
Sonnets    . 
Ode  to  Sleep   . 
Song 

Hopes  and  Memories 
Widderin's  Race    . 
October  . 
Will 

Here  and  There     . 
Welcome  to  Winter 
To  My  Mother 
Sonnets   . 

The  Mountain  of  the 
The  Vengeance  of  the 
The  Solitary  Lake 
The  Voice  in  the  Pines 
Visit  of  the  Wrens 
Morning  . 
Golden  Dell    . 
/A'Spectof  the  Pines 
Midsummer  in  the  So 
Cloud  Pictures 
Sonnet     . 

In  the  Pine  Barrens  — 
Sonnet 

The  Woodland  Phases 
After  the  Tornado 
In  the  Bower 
Whence '? 
Sonnet     . 
Violets     . 

By  the  Grave  of  Henry 
Sonnets    . 
Ariel 

The  Cloud  Star       . 
Sweet  heart,  Good  bye 
Sonnet 

Frida  and  her  Poet 
Preexistence  . 
Sonnet     . 

A  Thousand  Years  froi 
Sonnet     . 
Thunder  at  Midnight 


Lovers 

Goddess 


nth 


Sunset 


Timrod 


152 

153 
154 
156 
156 
156 
162 
163 
163 
164 
164 
166 
166 
178 
187 
188 
188 
190 
191 
.191  . 
192 
193 
194 
194 
195 
195 
195 
196 
196 
197 
198 
198 
200 
200 
201 
201 
202 
202 
204 


205 
206 
206 


CONTENTS. 


On  the  Death  of  Canon  Kingsley 
When  all  has  been  said  and  done 
The  Vision  in  the  Valley 
The  Arctic  Visitation  . 
The  Wind  of  Onset 


207 
208- 


209 
210 


The  Visit  of  Mahmoud  Ben  Suleim  to 

Paradise 210  \/ 

My  Daughter 215 

Our  "Humming-bird"         ....  215 


s     Unveiled 
'Muscadines     . 

In  a  Spring  Garden 

In  Degree 

The  Skeleton  Witness 

Storm  Fragments  . 

Above  the  Storm   . 

Underground 

The  Dryad  of  the  Pine 

Welcome  to  Frost 
i*-The  Pine's  Mystery 

To  a  Bee  . 

The  first  Mocking  Bird  in  Sprin 

Tbe  Red  and  the  White  Rose 

Before  the  Mirror 

Two  Epochs    . 

Wind  from  the  East 

Peach  Blooms 

The  Awakening     . 

Love's  Autumn 
*"" "  The  Spirea 

Coquette 

Skating  . 

The  World  within  us 

Forest  Quiet   . 

The  Mocking  Bird, 

A  Storm  in  the  Distance 

The  Vision  by  the  Sea 

The  Visionary  Face 

The  Rose  and  the  Thor 

The  Red  Lily  . 

Lake  Winnipiseogee 

Lake  Mists 

The  Inevitable  Calm 

The  Dead  Look      . 

Jetsam    . 

Fameless  Graves   . 

Winter  Rose   . 

Tristram  of  the  Wood 

Hints  of  Spring 

The  Hawk 

Over  the  Waters     . 

The  True  Heaven  . 

The  Breezes  of  June 

A  Mountain  Fancy 

Absence  and  Love 

The  Fallen  Pine-Cone 

Stern  Truths  Transfigured 

Distance  . 

Horizons  . 

In  the  Gray  of  the  Evening 


LATER  POEMS. 

219 
22l> 
22-1 


228 
229 
229 
229 
230 
231 


239 
240 
2411 
241 
241 
242 
242 
242 


244 

245 
245 
240 
247 


218 
218 
248 
2  IS 
249 
249 
249 
250 


The  Vision  at  Twilight 

250 

An  Hour  Too  Late         .... 

251 

"Too  Lon 

and  yet  too  High  !  "  . 

251 

The  Lordship  of  Corfu 

251 

Tallulah  Falls 

■  253 

The  Meadow  Brook      .... 

255 

The  Valley  of  Anostan 

256 

Two  Songs /  . 

256 

Sonnets: 

I. 

Freshness  of  Poetic   Percep 

tion           .... 

257 

II. 

Laocoon      .... 

257 

III. 

At  last          .... 

257 

IV. 

A  Phantom  in  the  Clouds 

258 

V. 

Japonicas 

258 

VI. 

The  Usurper 

258 

VII. 

December  Sonnet 

258 

VIII. 

A  Comparison    . 

259 

IX. 

Fate,  or  God  ?    . 

259 

X. 

Sonnet         .... 

259 

XL 

Earth  Odors  —  after  Rain 

260 

XII. 

Sonnet         .... 

260 

XIII. 

Poverty        .... 

260 

XIV. 

Waste 

261 

XV. 

A  Morning  after  Storm   . 

261 

XVI. 

Dead  Loves 

261 

XVII. 

Nature  at  Ease  . 

262 

XVIII. 

The  Cnydian  Oracle 

262 

XIX. 

The  Hyacinth    . 

262 

XX. 

The  Wood  Far  Inland      . 

262 

XXI. 

Sonnet         .... 

263 

XXII. 

Magnolia  Gardens    . 

263 

XXIII. 

England       .... 

263 

XXIV. 

Disappointment 

264 

XXV. 

The  Last  of  the  Roses 

264 

XXVI. 

The  Axe  and  the  Pine 

264 

XXVII. 

Betrothal  Night 

265 

XXVIII. 

"  The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  " 

265 

XXIX. 

Two  Pictures 

265 

XXX. 

The  Might  have  been 

265 

XXXI. 

Night  Winds  in  Winter    . 

266 

XXXII. 

To  the  Querulous  Poets  . 

266 

XXXIII. 

In  the  Porch 

266 

XXXIV. 

The  Phantom  Song    . 

267 

XXXV. 

Small  Griefs  and  Great     . 

267 

XXXVI. 

The  Shallow  Heart !  . 

267 

XXXVII. 

The  Stormy  Night     . 

268 

Personal  Sonnets  : 

1. 

To  Henry  W.  Longfellow 

268 

II. 

To  George  H.  Boker  . 

268 

CONTENTS. 


Personal  Sonnets : 

III.  To    Algernon    Charles    Swin- 

burne          269 

IV.  To  Edgar  Fawcett    .        .        .  269 
V.     Carlyle 269 

VI.    To  Jean  Ingelow        .        .        .  270 

VII.     To  M.  I.  P 270 

—  Macdonald's  Raid 271 

The  Battle  of  King's  Mountain          .        .  274 

The  Hanging  of  Black  Cudjo     .        .        .  278 

Charleston  Betaken 280 

To  the  Author  of  "the  Victorian  Poets  "  .  2S3 

Hera 283 

Below  and  Above 284 

The  "Woodland  Grave 284 

A  Character 284 

Lyric  of  Action 285 

By  a  Grave 285 

Severance 286 

Two  Graves 287 

The  World      .        .      ■ 287 

The  May  Sky 288 

A  Lyrical  Picture 288 

Lamia  Unveiled 289 

Bachel 289 

^XTlie  Snow  ATp.sspno-prs 290 

To  Alexander  H.  Stephens  .  29:! 

The  Enchanted  Mirror         ....  293 

The  Imprisoned  Sea- Winds         .        .        .  294 

Blanche  and  Nell 294 

The  Dark 295 

In  the  Studio 296 

"Washington 296 

In  Ambush 297 

—  South  Carolina  to  the  States  of  the  North  297 

The  Stricken  South  to  the  North       .        .  299 

The  Return  of  Peace 300 

Yorktown  Centennial  Lyric        .        .        .  304 

On  the  Persecution  of  the  Jews  in  Russia  305 

Assassination 306 

England 307 

To  Longfellow 308 

"  Philip  my  King"        .  308 

A  Plea  for  the  Gray      .....  309 

Union  of  Blue  and  Gray      ....  310 

The  King  of  the  Plow 311 

In  Memoriam  : 

I.    Longfellow  Dead        .        .        .  312 
II.    On  the  Death  of  President  Gar- 
field      312 


In  Memoriam  : 

III.  Dean  Stanley 

IV.  Hiram  11.  Benner 

Y.  W.  Gihnore  Shnms    . 

VI.  Dickens        .... 

VII.  To  Bayard  Taylor  beyond  us 

VIII.  Bayard  Taylor  (upon  death) 

IX.  Richard  H.  Dana,  Sen.      . 

X.  Bryant  Dead !     . 

XI.  The  Pole  of  Death    . 

XII.  The  Death  of  Hood   . 

Meditative  and  Religious  : 

I.  Christ  on  Earth  . 

II.  Harvest  Home    . 

III.  Reconciliation     . 

IV.  A  Vernal  Hymn 
V.  Christian  Exaltation 

VI.  Solitude  ;  in  Youth  and  A 

VII.  Denial  .... 

VIII.  Lesson  of  Submission 

IX.  The  Supreme  Hour   . 

X.  A  Christmas  Lyric 

XL  The  Pilgrim 

XII.  Penuel. 

XIII.  Patience      . 

XIY.  The  Latter  Peace 

XY.  Gautama 

XYI.  Christ   .... 

XVII.  A  Winter  Hymn 

XVIII.  The  Three  Urns 

XIX.  On  the  Decline  of  Faith 

XX.  The  Ultimate  Trust  . 

t^XXI.  A  Little  While 
Linger  xet 

XXII.  Twilight  Monologue  . 

XXIII.  The  Shadow  of  Death 

XXIV.  Finis     .... 
XXY.  The  Shadows  on  the  Wall 

XXVI.  Consunimatum  Est     . 

XXVII.  The  Broken  Chords    . 

XXVIII.  The  Rift  Within  the  Lut 

*^XIX.  In  Hartoor    . 

XXX.  Forecastings 

XXXI.  Appeal  to  Nature  of  the  Soli 
tary  Heart 

Poems  for  Special  Occasions  : 

I.  To  the  Poet  Whittier 

II.  To  O.  W.  Holmes 

HI.  To  Emerson 

IV.  To  Hon.  R.  G.  H. 


313 
314 
315 

320 
320 
321 

321 


323 
324 
325 
325 
326 
326 
326 
327 
327 
327 
328 
328 
328 
329 
329 
330 
330 
330 
331 


333 

334 
334 
335 
336 

337 
337 
337 
338 

338 

339 
339 
340 
340 


HUMOROUS  PdEMS. 


Valerie's  Confession 313 

A  Meeting  of  the  Birds        ....  344 

A  Bachelor  Bookworm's  Complaint  .        .  346 

Cocjuette  and  Her  Lover      ....  348 


Senex  to  his  Friend 

The  Observant  "  Eldest"  Speaks 

Lucifer's  Deputy  .... 


351 

351 
352 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS   FOR   CHILDREN". 


Little  Nellie  in  the  Prison    ....  357 

The  Children 359 

"Will  and  I 359 

Jamie  and  his  Mother 360 

The  Three  Copecks 361 

The  Reason  Why 361 

The  Silken  Shoe 362 

The  Black  Destrier       .        .        .        .        .364 

The  Adventures  of  Little  Bob  Bonnyface  365 

Kiss  me,  Katie  ! 368 

Caged 369 

Little  Lottie's  Grievance      ....  369 
A  new  Version  of  Why  the  Robin's  Breast 

is  Red 370 

The  Little  Saint 370 

A  new  Philosophy,  or,  Star  Showers  ex- 
plained            371 


Baby's  First  Word 371 

The  Chameleon 372 

Flying  Furze  .......  372 

The  New  Sister 373 

Hop,  Skip,  and  Jump,  a  Queer  Trio  per- 
sonified            373 

Dancing 371 

Motes 376 

The  Ground  Squirrel 370 

Artie's  Amen 377 

Three  Portraits  of  Boys       ....  37S 

Birds 380 

The  Dead  Child  and  the  Mocking-bird      .  380 

The  Little  Grand  Duches     ....  381 

RolyPoly 382 

The  Imprisoned  Innocents  ....  383 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PA5E 

Portrait  of  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne   ........       Frontispiece 

Home  of  Paul  II.  Hayne xvii 

Come  !  Come  !  and  Seek  us  Here 5 

We  Reached  an  Isle 8 

Gladly  I  Hail  these  Solitudes 14 

Between  the  Sunken  Sun  and  the  New  Moon 27 

This  is  my  World           30 

Paul  H.  Hayne's  Birthplace 40 

The  Canvas  Speaks 46 

Come,  Sweetheart,  Hear  Me 53 

Almighty  Nature  the  First  Law  of  God 59 

They  Arose  with  the  Sun 73 

The  Flowers  that  Wreathe  my  Humble  Hearth 76 

And  by  their  Favorite  Stream 81 

Leagues  of  Golden  Fields  and  Streams 96 

Voices  Low  and  Sweet 101 

The  Moon,  a  Ghost  of  Her  Sweet  Self 106 

Upveiled  in  Yonder  Dim  Ethereal  Sea          .                109 

Countless  Coruscations  Glimmer 112 

There  Cometh  a  Dream  of  the  Past  to  Me 118 

Those  Bristling  Bocks 125 

He  Turned  to  Wave  "  Farewell  " 132 

On  the  Fateful  Streamlet  Rolled 138 

View  us  White-Robed  Lilies 145 

King  of  a  Realm  of  Firs  and  icy  Floes 149 

Our  Hopes  in  Youth 156 

No,  No  !  Stanch  Widderin           161 

Every  Deepest  Copse 168 

The  Kingdom's  Princeliest  Youth 174 

A  Monster  meet  for  Tartauus 183 

The  Woven  Light  and  Shadows         ..........  190 


xvi  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Uplift  and  Bear  Me  Where  tiie  Wild  Flowers  Grow 197 

While  Sauntering  Through  the  Crowded  Street 204 

On  Yesternight  Old  Winter  Came 210 

Have  I  Not  Followed 221 

Sober  September „ 222 

O  Masterful  Wind  and  Cruel 23:3 

Ah!  Many  a  Gallant  Loved  Her  Well   .........  236 

While  Grimly  Down  the  Moonlit  Bay 243 

0  Twilight  Sky  of  Mellow  Gray 250 

Gurgle,  Gurgle,  Gurgle 255 

Now  Serene  Nature 262 

Winds  !  are  they  Winds  ? 266 

'Twas  a  Morn  Cold  and  Gray 273 

That  Man  must  Die 276 

Three  Hundred  Noble  Vessels 281 

We  Turn,  My  Love  and  I 284 

To    Pass  Once  More  o'er  Hampshire's  Mountain  Heights         .        .        .        .291 

You  Walk  My  Studio's  Modest  Bound 296 

War- Wasted  Lands 303 

Old  Passions  May  be  Purged  of  Blood 309 

Pale  Memory  Near  Us 317 

O'er  all  the  Fragrant  Land,  this  Harvest  Day 324 

O  Weary  Winds  ! 330 

My  Thoughts  are  Wandering 335 

For  Full  Five  Seconds 349 

Nellie  Clasped  his  Neck 358 

My  Shoe,  Papa         .        .                363 

Katie,  Pretty  Katie,  Kiss  Me 368 

Dancing  !  I  Love  It 375 

Koly  Poly's  Just  Awakened 382 


Home  of  Paul  Hamilton  Hayxe, 
"Copse  Hill,"  Ga. 


YOUTHFUL    POEMS. 


1850-1800. 


THE    WILL  AND   THE    WING. 

To  have  the  will  to  soar,  but  not  the 
wings, 

Eyes  fixed  forever  on  a  starry  height, 

Whence  stately  shapes  of  grand  imagin- 
ings 

Flash  down  the  splendors  of  imperial 
light; 

And  yet  to  lack  the  charm  that  makes 

them  ours, 
The  obedient  vassals  of  that  conquering 

spell, 
Whose  omnipresent  and  ethereal  powers, 
Encircle  Heaven,  nor  fear  to  enter  Hell ; 

This  is  the  doom  of  Tantalus  —  the 
thirst 

For  beauty7 s  balmy  fount  to  quench  the 
fires 

Of  the  wild  passion  that  our  souls  have 
nurst 

In  hopeless  promptings  —  unfulfilled  de- 
sires. 

Yet  would  I  rather  in  the  outward  state 
Of    Song's    immortal    temple    lay    me 

down, 
A  beggar  basking  by  that  radiant  gate 
Than  bend  beneath  the  haughtiest  em- 
pire's crown! 

For  sometimes,  through  the  bars,   my 

ravished  eyes 
Have  caught  brief  glimpses  of   a   life 

divine, 
And  seen  a  far,  mysterious  rapture  rise 
Beyond  the  veil  that  guards  the  inmost 

shrine. 


"  THE  LAUGHING  HOURS  BEFORE 
HER  FEET." 

The  laughing  Hours  before  her  feet, 
Are  scattering  spring-time  roses, 
And  the  voices  in  her  soul  are  sweet 
As  music's  mellowed  closes; 
All     hopes    and     passions,     heavenly 

born, 
In  her,  have  met  together, 
And  Joy  diffuses  round  her  morn 
A  mist  of  golden  weather. 

As  o'er  her  cheek  of  delicate  dyes, 
The  blooms  of  childhood  hover, 
So  do  the  tranced  and  sinless  eyes, 
All  childhood's  heart  discover; 
Full  of  a  dreamy  happiness, 
With  rainbow  fancies  laden, 
Whose  arch  of  promise  grows  to  bless 
Her  spirit's  beauteous  Adenne. 

She  is  a  being  born  to  raise 

Those  undefiled  emotions, 

That  whisper  of  our  sunniest  days, 

And  most  sincere  devotions; 

In  her,  we  see  renewed  and  bright, 

That  phase  of  earthly  story. 

Which  glimmers  in  the  morning  light, 

Of  God's  exceeding  glory. 

Why,  in  a  life  of  mortal  cares, 

Appear  these  heavenly  faces, 

Why,  on  the  verge  of  darkened  years, 

These  clear,  celestial  graces  ? 

'Tis  but  to  cheer  the  soul  that  faints 

With  pure  and  blest  evangels, 

To  prove,  if  Heaven  is  rich  with  saints, 

That  Earth  may  have  her  angels. 


YOUTHFUL   POEMS. 


Enough!  'tis  not  for  me  to  pray 
That  on  her  life's  sweet  river, 
The  calmness  of  a  virgin  clay 
May  rest,  and  rest  forever; 
I  know  a  guardian  Genius  stands 
Beside  those  waters  lowly. 
And  labors  with  ethereal  hands 
To  keep  them  pure  and  holy. 


EVE   OF  THE   BRIDAL. 

Yes!  it  has  come;  the  strange,  o'ermas- 
tering  hour. 

When  buoyant  hopes,  and  tender,  trem- 
ulous fears 

Sway  the  full  heart  with  a  divided  power, 

The  flush  of  sunshine,  and  the  touch  of 
tears ! 

Oh!  for  a  spell  to  charm  away  thy 
care. 

As  I  could  charm,  were  I  but  near  thee 
now 

To  chide  coy  flickerings  of  that  half  de- 
spair 

Of  virginal  shame  upon  thy  downcast 
brow ; 

A  fitful  gloom  'mid  blushes  of  bright  joy. 
Like  those  transparent  clouds  in  summer 

days, 
That  cast  their  transient  shadows  of  alloy 
Across  the  noontide's  else  too  dazzling 

blaze ; 

Yet,  from  the  fair  hills  of  this  foreign 

shore, 
I  waft  thee  benedictions  on  the  wind, 
Hopes  that  a  peaceful  bliss  forevermore 
May  rule  the  gracious  empire  of  thy  mind. 

And  blessing  thus,  the  dreary  distance 
dies. 

And  in  a  clearer  than  Agrippa's  glass. 

The  enamored  fancy,  —  what  pale  vis- 
ions rise, 

Brightening  to  shape  and  beauty  ere  they 
pass? 


A  room  where  sunset's  glory  deep, 
though  dim, 

Girds  thy  rich  chamber  with  luxurious 
grace, 

Rounds  the  fair  outline  of  each  delicate 
limb. 

And  crowns  with  chastened  ray  thine  elo- 
quent face, 

In  shimmering  folds  thy  raiments  soft 
and  rare, 

Swell  with  the  passionate  heavings  of  thy 
breast. 

O'er  whose  young  loveliness,  the  en- 
tranced air, 

Languidly  breathing,  seeks  voluptuous 
rest. 

Thy  hand  — (in  two  brief  hours  no  longer 

thine)  — 
Gleams  near  a  gossamer  curtain,  stirred 

with  sighs, 
And   the   full,   star-like   tears   begin   to 

shine 
In  the  blue  heaven  of   thy  bewildering 

eyes. 

Tears    for    the    girlhood,    almost     past 

away. 
Its  innocent  life,  its  wealth   of    tender 

lore, 
Tears  for  the  womanhood,  whose  opening 

day. 
May  not  reveal  the  untried  scene  before. 

Not  bitter  tears!  for  him  thou  lov'st  is 

true, 
And  all  thy  being  quivers  into  flame, 
A  swift  delicious  flame  that  thrills  thee 

through, 
Whene'er   thy  memory   lingers   on   his 

name. 

Ev'n  now  I  see  thee  turn  thy  timid  head. 
Luxuriant-locked,  towards  a  dim  retreat. 
Where  twilight  shadows  veil  thy  bridal 

bed, 
And   golden, gloom   and   tender  silence 

meet. 


MY  FATHER  — SONG. 


MY  FATHER. 

My   father!    in  the   vague,    mysterious 
past, 
My   boyish  thoughts   have   wandered 

o'er  and  o'er, 
To  thy  lone  grave  upon  a  distant  shore, 
The  wanderer  of  the  waters,  still  at  last. 

Never    in    childhood    have    I    blithely 
sprung 
To  catch  my  father's  voice,  or  climb 

his  knee; 
He  was  a  constant  pilgrim  of  the  sea, 
And   died    upon    it  when    bis   boy   was 
young. 

He    perished    not     in    conflict    nor    in 
flame, 
Xo    laurel    garland     rests    upon     his 

tomb; 
Yet  in  stern  duty's  path  he  met  his 
doom ; 
A  life  heroic,  though  unwed  to  fame ! 

First  in  vague  depths  of  fancy,  scarce- 
defined, 
Love  limned  his  wavering  likeness  on 

my  soul. 
Till  through  slow  growths  it  waxed  a 
perfect  whole 
Of  clear  conceptions,  brightening  heart 
and  mind. 

His     careless    bearing   and   his   manly 
face, 
His  cordial  eye;  his  firm-knit,  stalwart 

form, 
Fitted  to  breast  the  fight,  the  wreck, 
the  storm; 
The  sailor's  frankness  and  the  soldier's 
grace. 

In  dreams,  in  dreams  we've  mingled,  and 
a  swell 
Of    feeling    mightier    for    the    eyres' 

eclipse. 
The  music  of  a  blest  Apocalypse, 
Thrilled  through  my  spirit  with  its  mys- 
tic spell : 


Ah,  then !  ofttimes  a  sadder  scene  will 
rise, 
A   gallant   vessel    through   the   mist- 
bound  day, 
Lifting  her  spectral  spars  above  the  bay, 
Gloomily  swayed  against  gray  glimmer- 
ing skies. 

O'er  the  dim  billows  thundering,  peals  a 
boom 
Of  the  deep  gun   that   bursteth  as  a 

knell." 
When  the  brave  tender  to  the  brave 
farewell  — 
And  strong  arms  bear  a  comrade  to  the 
tomb. 

The  opened  sod:  a  sorrowing  band  be- 
side— 
One    rattling   roll   of   musketry,    and 

then, 
A  man  no  more  among  his  fellow-men, 
Darkness  his  chamber,  and  the  earth  his 
bride, 

My  father   sleeps   in   peace;    perchance 
more  blest 
Than  some  he  left  to  mourn  him,  and 

to  know 
The  bitter  blight  of  an  enduring  woe, 
Longing  (how  oft!)   with  him  to  be  at 
rest. 


SONG. 


Fly,  swiftly  fly 
Through  yon  fair  sky, 
O  purple-pinioned  Hours! 
And  bring  once  more  the  balmy  night, 
When  from  her  lattice,  silvery  bright, 
Love's  beacon-star  —  her  taper  —  shines 
Between  those  dark  manorial  pines, 
Above  the  myrtle-bowers. 

Fly,  breezes,  fly, 

And  waft  my  sigh 
With  love's  warm  fondness  fraught, 
'Twill  stir  my  lady's  languid  mood, 
Where,  in  her  verdurous  solitude. 


YOUTHFUL   POEMS. 


She  sits  and  thinks,  a  moonlight  grace 

Cast  o'er  her  beauteous  brow  and  face, 

Touched  by  a  passionate  thought! 

Glide,  rivulet,  glide 
With  whispering  tide, 
Through  coverts  low  and  deep, 
To  woo  her  with  the  airy  call, 
The  music  faint,  the  far-off  fall, 
Of  fairy  streams  in  fairy  climes, 
Or  pleasant  lapse  of  fairy  rhymes, 
Soft  as  her  breath  in  sleep. 

Fly,  swiftly  fly 
Tb  rough  yon  calm  sky, 
O  gentle-hearted  dove! 
And  pausing  on  her  favorite  tree, 
Murmur  your  plaint  so  tenderly, 
That,  born  of  that  sweet  tone,  a  charm 
Her  very  heart  of  .hearts  may  warm 
With  rosy  bliss  of  love. 

Fly,  swiftly  fly 
Through  yon  fair  sky, 
O  purple-pinioned  Hours ! 
And  bring  once  more  the  balmy  night, 
When  from  her  lattice,  silvery  bright. 
Love's  beacon-star  —  her  taper  —  shines 
Between  those  dark  manorial  pines 
Above  the  myrtle-bowers ! 


SONG. 


Ho !  fetch  me  the  winecup !  fill  up  to  the 

brim! 
For  my  heart  has  grown  cold,  and  my 

vision  is  dim, 
And  I  fain  would  bring  back  for  a  mo- 
ment the  glow. 
The   swift   passion   that   age   has   long 

chilled  with  its  snow; 
Ho!    fetch    me   the   winecup!    the    red 

liquor  gleams, 
With  a  promise  to  waken  youth's  rapture 

of  dreams. 
And  I'll  drain  the  bright  draught  for  that 

promise  divine. 
Though  Death,  Death  the  spectre,  shoidd 

hand  me  the  wine. 


'Tis  not  life  that  I  live,  for  the  blood- 
currents  glide 
Through  my  wan  shrunken  veins  in  so 

sluggish  a  tide, 
That  my  heart  droops  and  withers ;  what! 

life  call  you  this  ? 
O!  rather,  consumed  by  one  keen  thrill 

of  bliss, 
Would  I  die  with  youth's  glory  revivified 

round  me, 
The  deep  eyes  that  blessed,  and  the  white 

arms  that  bound  me; 
O !  rather  than  brood  in  this  dusk  of  de- 
sire, 
Sink  down,  like  yon  marvellous  sunset, 

all  fire. 
The  soul  clad  with  wings,  and  the  brain 

steeped  in  light ; 
Then  come,  potent  wizard !  I  call  on  thy 

might, 
Breathe  a  magical  mist  o'er  the  ravage  of 

Time, 
Roll  back  the  sad  years  to  the  flush  of  my 

prime, 
And    I'll  drain  thy  bright  draught  for 

that  vision  divine. 
Though  Death,  Death  the  Spectre,  should 

hand  me  the  wine! 


BY    THE    GRAVE. 
[Extract  from  an  unfinished  narrative  poem.') 

This  is  the  place —  I  pray  thee,  friend, 
Leave  me  alone  with  that  dread  grief, 
Whose  raven  wings  o'erarch  the  grave, 
Closed  on  a  life  how  sad  and  brief ! 

Already  the  young  violets  bloom 

On    the    light    sod    that    shrouds    her 

form, 
And  Summer's  awful  sunshine  strikes 
Incongruous  on  the  spirit's  storm. 

She  died,  and  did  not  know  that  I, 
Whose  heart  is  breaking  in  this  gloom. 
Had  shrined  her  love,  as  pilgrims  shrine 
A  blossom  from  some  saintly  tomb. 


SONG   OF   THE   NAIADS  —  LETHE. 


And,  ah!  indeed,  it  was  a  tomb, 
The  tomb  of  Hope,  so  ghastly-gray, 
Whence  sprung  that  flower  of  love  that 

grew 
Serenely  on  the  Hope's  decay. 

A  pallid  flower  that  bloomed  alone, 
With  no  warm  light  to  keep  it  fair, 
But  nurtured  by  the  tears  that  fell, 
Even  from  the  clouds  of  our  despair. 

She  perished,  and  her  patient  soul 
Passed  to  God's  rest,  nor  did  she  know 


I  kept  the  faith  we  could  not  plight 
In  honor,  or  in  peace  below. 

But,  Love!  at  last,  all,  all  is  clear. 
You  see  the  flame  of  that  fierce  fate, 
Which    blazed    between    my   life,   and 

yours, 
And  left  them  both  —  how  desolate ! 

And  well  you  comprehend  that  now 
My  heart  is  breaking  where  I  stand, 
But  'mid  the  ruin,  shrines  its  faith, 
A  relic  from  love's  Holy  Land. 


1  Come  !  come  !   and  seek  us  here, 
In  these  cool  deeps." 


SOXG    OF    THE   XAIADS. 

Gay  is  our  crystal  floor, 

Beneath  the  wave. 
With  strange  gems  flaming  o'er 

The  Genii  gave ; 
Sweet  is  the  purple  light 
That  haunts  our  happy  sight, 
And  low  and  sweet  the  lulling  strains 

that  sigh 
While  the  tides   pause,   and  the  faint 
zephyrs  die. 

Come!  come!  and  seek  us  here, 

In  these  cool  deeps, 
Where  all  is  calmly  fair, 

And  sorrow  sleeps : 
Thy  burning  brow  shall  rest, 
Couched  on  a  tender  breast, 
And,  charmed   to  bliss,  thy  soul  shall 

catch  the  gleams 
Of  mystic  glories  in  Elysian  dreams. 


Come !  ere  the  earth  grows  drear, 

The  tempests  rave, 
And  the  fast-failing  year 

Is  nigh  its  grave : 
Thy  summer,  too,  is  past, 
Wouldst  thou  have  peace  at  last  ? 
O !  here  she  dwells  serenely  in  still  caves, 
And  waits  to  woo  thee  underneath  the 
waves. 


LETHE. 

A   dumb,    dark   region   through   whose 

desolate  heart 
Creeps    a    dull    river   with    a   stagnant 

flood ; 
Its   skies  are  sombre-hued,   and  dreary 

clouds, 
Xo  wind  hath  ever  stirred,  hang  low  and 

dim 


6 


YOUTHFUL  POEMS. 


Above  the  barren  woodlands ;  all  things 

droop 
In  slumber;  the  little  willow  stoops  to 

kiss 
The  waves,  but  not  a  ripple  murmurs 

back 
Its  salutation,  and  wan  starlike  flowers 
Yield   a  white  radiance  to  the  failing 

sense. 
And  odors  pregnant  with  the  charms  of 

rest, 
And   glamour   of    Oblivion;    all  things 

droop 
In  slumber;  for  whate'er  hath  passed  the 

bounds 
Of   this   miraculous   kingdom,   bird   or 

beast, 
Men  lured  from  action,  or  soul-sick  of 

life. 
Weary  and  heartsore,  maids   in    love's 

despair. 
Or  mothers  stricken  by  their  first-born's 

crime  — 
All    sink    without    a   struggle  to   deep 

peace. 
Prone  in  the  gleam  the  river  casts  abroad, 
A  gleam  more  pallid  than  the  light  of 

Hades, 
Lie  those  who  sought  this  region  ages 

since ; 
Their  upturned  brows  are  smooth,  and 

tranced  with  calm. 

And   on   their  shadowy  lips  a  waning 

smile 
Fitfully  glimmers;  round  them  rest  the 

forms 
Of  savage  beasts ;  the  lion  all  unnerved, 
Drowsy  and  passionless,  his  huge  limbs 

relaxed, 
And  curved  to  lines  of  languor:  the  fierce 

pard 
Tamed  to  a  breathless  quiet,  whilst  afar. 
Gloom  the  gaunt  shapes  of  mighty  brutes 

of  eld, 
The  world's  primeval  tenants;  all  things 

droop 
In  slumber;    even    the   sluggish  river's 

flow 


Sounds  like  the  dying  surges  of  the  sea 
To  ears  far  inland,  or  the  feeblest  sigh 
Of  winds  that  faint  on  lofty  mountain- 
tops. 
This  is  the  realm — "Oblivion" — this 

the  stream 
Which  mortals  have  called —  "  Lethe ! " 


THE  REALM  OF  BEST. 

In  the  realm  that  Nature  boundeth 
Are  there  balmy  shores  of  peace, 
Where  no  passion-torrent  soundeth, 
And  no  storm-wind  seeks  release  ? 
Eest  they  'mid  the  waters  golden, 
Of  some  strange  untravelled  sea. 
Where  low,  halcyon  airs  have  stolen, 
Lingering  round  them  slumbrously  ? 

Shores  begirt  with  purple  hazes, 
Mellowed  by  gray  twilight's  beams, 
Whose  weird  curtains  shroud  the  mazes, 
Wandering  through  a  realm  of  dreams ; 
Shores,  where  Silence  wooes  Devotion, 
Action  faints,  and  echo  dies, 
And  each  peace-entranced  emotion 
Feeds  on  quiet  mysteries. 

If  there  be,  O  guardian  Master, 
Genius  of  my  life  and  fate, 
Bear  me  from  the  world's  disaster, 
Through  that  kingdom's  shadowy  gate; 
Let  me  lie  beneath  its  willows, 
On  the  fragrant,  flowering  strand. 
Lulled  to  rest  by  breezeless  billows, 
Thrilled  with  airs  of  Elfin-land. 

Slumber,  flushed  with  faintest  dreamings ; 
Deep  that  knows  no  answering  deep, 
Unprofaned  by  phantom-seemings, 
—  Mockeries  of  Protean  sleep ;  — 
Noiseless,  timeless,  half  forgetting, 
May  that  sleep  Elysian  be. 
While  serener  tides  are  setting, 
Inward,  from  the  roseate  sea. 

Hark !  to  mine  a  voice  is  calling, 
Sweet  as  tropic  winds  at  night, 
Gently  dying,  faintly  falling 
From  some  marvellous  mystic  height, 


THE  ISLAND  IN   THE   SOUTH. 


Troubled  Thought's  unhallowed  riot 
By  its  wandering  glamour  kissed, 
Feels  a  charm  of  sacred  quiet 
Fold  it,  like  enchanted  mist. 

"There's  a  realm,  thy  footsteps  nearing," 
[Thus  the  voice  to  mine  replies,] 
"  Where  the  heavy  heart  despairing, 
Breathes  no  more  its  life  in  sighs ; 
'Tis  a  realm,  imperial,  stately, 
Refuge  of  dethroned  Years, 
Calm  as  midnight,  towering  greatly, 
Through  a  moonlit  veil  of  tears. 

•'  Though  an  empire,  freedom  reigneth, 
Kingly  brow,  and  subject  knee. 
Each  with  what  to  each  pertaineth, 
Slumbering  in  equality; 
'Tis  a  sleep,  divorced  from  dreamings, 
Deep  that  knows  no  answering  deep, 
Unprof aned  by  phantom-seemings  — 
Xoiseless,  wondrous,  timeless  sleep. 

"  On  its  shores  are  weeping  willows, 
Action  faints,  and  Echo  dies, 
And  the  languid  dirge  of  billows, 
Lulls  with  opiate  symphonies; 
But  beside  that  murmurous  ocean 
All  whc  rest,  repose  in  sooth, 
And  no  more  the  stilled  emotion 
Stirs  to  joy,  or  wakens  ruth. 

"  Thou  sha.lt  gain  these  blest  dominions, 
Thou  shalt  find  this  peaceful  ground, 
Shaded  by  Oblivion's  pinions, 
Startled  by  no  mortal  sound ; 
Xoiseless,  timeless,  all,  forgetting, 
Shall  thy  sleep  Elysian  be, 
While  eternal  tides  are  setting 
Inward  from  that  mystic  sea." 


THE  ISLAND  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

The  ship  went  down  at  noonday  in  a 

calm, 
When  not  a  zephyr  broke  the  crystal  sea. 
We  two  escaped  alone:  we  reached  an 

isle 
Whereon  the  water  settled  languidly 


In  a  long  swell  of  music ;  luminous  skies 
O'erarched  the   place,  and   lazy,  broad 

lagoons 
Swept  inland,  with  the  boughs  of  plan- 
tain trees 
Trailing  cool  shadows  through  the  dense 

repose ; 
All  round  about  us  floated  gentle  airs, 
And   odors   that   crept   upward   to   the 

sense 
Like  delicate   pressures    of   voluptuous 

thought. 
I,  with  a  long  bound,  leapt  upon  the 

shore 
Shouting,   bat  she,  pavilioned   in   dark 

locks, 
Sobbed    out   thanksgiving;    'twixt    the 

world  and  us, 
Distance  that  seemed  Eternity  outrolled 
Its  terrible  barriers ;  on  the  waste  a  Fate 
Stood  up,  and  stretching  its  blank  hands 

abroad 
Muttered  of  desolation.     Did  we  weep, 
And  groaning  cast  our  foreheads  in  the 

dust  ? 
So  it  had  been,  but  in  each  other's  eyes 
Smiled  a  new  world,  dearer  than  that 

which  rose 
Beneath  the  lost  stars  of  the  faded  West. 
That  very  morn  the  white-stoled  priest  of 

God 
Had  blessed  us  with  the  church's  choicest 

prayers, 
And  these  did  gird  us  like  a  sapphire 

wall 
When  the   floods   threatened,   and   the 

ghastly  doom 
Moaned  itself  impotent;  free  we  were  to 

love 
To  the  full  scope  of  passion ;  a  few  suns, 
And  in  the  deep  recesses  of  the  woods 
We  built  ourselves  a  cabin ;  the  dim  spot 
Was   fortressed    by    the   tropic's    giant 

growths, 
Luxuriant  Titans  of  a  hundred  years; 
And  the  vines,  laced  and  interlaced  be- 
tween, 
Drooped  with   a  flowery  largess  many- 

hued. 


8 


YOUTHFUL    POEMS. 


It  was  a  place  of  Faery ;  songs  of  birds 
That  glimmered  in  and  out  among  the 

leaves, 
Like  magical  dreams  embodied,  wooed 

the  winds 
To  gentlest  motion  of  benignant  wings; 
And  the  sun  veiled  his  radiance,  and  the 

stars 
Peered  through    the   shadowy   stillness 

with  a  light 
So  spiritual,  the  forest  seemed  to  wane 
In  tremulous  lines  waved  down  the  sil- 
very aisles. 
There  lived,  there  loved  we,  as  none  else 

have  lived 
And  loved,  I  think,  since  the  primeval 

blight 
Bained   down   its    discords,   and    death 

clinched  the  curse. 
No  shallow  mockeries  of  a  worn-out  age, 
Effete  and  helpless,  bound  young  passion 

round 
With  the  cold  fetters  of  detested  forms : 
Civilization  was  not  there  to  set 
Its  specious  seal  of  custom  on  our  hearts, 
Prisoning  the  bolder  virtues;  we  might 

dare 
To  act,  speak,  think,  as  the  true  nature 

moved, 
Untutored  and  majestic ;  our  souls  grew 
To  the  stature  of  the  spirit,  that  looks 

down 
From  the  unpolluted  regnaney  of  heavens 
That  hold  no  curses;  the  glad  universe 
Showered  rare  benedictions  on  our  path; 
Matter  was  merged  in  poesy:  the  winds 
From  the  serene  Pacific,  the  quick  gales 
From  mountainous  ridges  in  the  upper- 
most air, 
The  eternal  chorus  of  far  seas  serene, 
The  harmony  of  forests,  the  small  voice 
That  trembles  from  the  happy  rivulet's 

breast,  Iphy, 

All  touched  us  with  that  sweet  philoso- 
Which,    if    we   woo    the    visible   world 

aright, 
Blesses   experience   with   new  gates   of 

sense 
Where  through  we  gain  Elysium. 


So  the  years 
Were  winged  and  odorous  with  a  thou- 

sand  joys, 
Of  which  the  poor  slave  to  the  hollow 

law 
We  term  society,  hath  had  no  dream ; 
Our  love  was  comprehensive,  full,  divine, 
Hounding  the  perfect  orbit  wherein  life 
Should   gravitate   to  God,   even   as  the 

spheres 
Eoll  to  the  central  fire;  love  mastered 

life 
As  maelstroms    suck   still  waters,   love 

the  one 
Electric,  current  through  act,  reason,  will, 
Throbbing    like    inspiration  ;    no    vain 

touch 
Of  weak,  fantastic  passion,  no  thin  glow 
Of  morbid  longing,  fluttering  feebly  up 
From  shallow  brains,  stirred  to  a  dubious 

flame, 
And  tortured  with  false  throes  of  senti- 
ment — 
(That  bastard  whimperer  to  the  deity, 

Love  — 
As  a  changeling  to  the  Titans)  —  no  red 

heat 
Of    base    desire,    fusing    the     delicate 

thought 
To  chaos;  but  a  steadfast,  genial  sun, 
A  luminous  glory,  gentle  as  intense, 
Making  our  fate  a  heaven  of  warmth, 

light,  rest, 
Whose  very  clouds  were  halos,  and  whose 

storms 
Were  tempered  into  music.     Thus  time 

stole 
On  muffled  wings  through  the  it  ill  air  of 

bliss, 
Gathering  our  ripened  hopes,  and  sowing 

seeds 
Of  joy  to  come.     My  innocent  bud  had 

flowered 
To  beauty  —  oh !   such  beauty  as  these 

lips, 
Touched  though  they  were   with    fire, 

might  not  profane 
With  shackles  of  mean  utterance.     Oh, 

God!  God! 


"We  reached  an  isle 
Whereon  the  waters  settled  languidly." 


ODE. 


0 


Why  didst  thou  take  her  from  me  ?  why 

transform 
The  passionate  presence  in  my  shielding 

arms 
To  this  ijoor  phantom  of  a  broken  brain, 
Mocking  my  woe  with  shadows  '?    On  a 

night 
When  the  still  sea  was  calmest,  the  bright 

stars 
Most  bright,  and  a  warm  breathing  on 

the  wind 
Spoke  of  perpetual  summer,   a  strange 

voice 
I  scarce  could  hear,  said:  "  It  is  evening 

time," 
And  a  wan  hand  my  eyes  were  blind  to 

note 
Beckoned  her  far  away. 

The  awful  grief 
Closed  round  me  like  an  ocean.     I  was 

mad, 
And  raved  my  memory  from  me.     When 

again 
The  world  dawned,  as  a  dreary  landscape 

dawns 
Grotesquely  through  the  sluggish  mists 

of  March, 
I  walked  once  more  in  a  great  capital's 

streets, 
A  savage  'midst  the  civilized,  a  man  — 
.Shattered  and  wrecked,  I  grant  you,  — 

still  a  man 
Amongst   the    puppets   that  usurp  the 

name 
And  act  the  fraud  so  basely,  that   the 

Fiend 
Wearies  to  death  the  echoes  of  his  hell 
In  laughter  at  them.    I  am  with  you  still, 
Emasculate  denizens  of  the  stifling  mart, 
Where,  heaven's  free  winds  are  throttled 

in  the  fumes 
Of  furnaces,  and  the  insulted  sun 
Glooms  through  the  crowding  vapors  at 

midday, 
Like  a  God,  re-collecting  to  himself 
His  immortality;  where  nerveless  limbs 
Bear  nerveless  bodies  to  their  separate 

dens 
Of  torture,  and  lean,  wide-eyed  revellers 


Foster  the  hungering  worm  that  never 

dies, 
And  fan  the  lurid  fire  unquenchable ; 
Where  stealthy  avarice  lurks  in  wait  to 

sack 
The  widow's  house  ;  and  license  of  low 

minds, 
Loaded  with   prurient  knowledge,  and 

no  hearts 
(Self-worship  having  killed  them),  make 

the  world 
A  Pandemonium.     I  am  with  you  still; 
But  the  hours  creep  on  to  a  more  fortu- 
nate time; 
A  vessel  swells  her  broad  sails  in  the  bay. 
And  the  breeze  bloweth  seaward ;  I  will 

seek 
My  island  in  the  southern  waves  again ; 
A  thousand   memories   urge   me,  tones 

that  slept 
Waken  to  invitation ;  I  can  feel 
The  Hesperian  beauty  of  that  realm  of 

peace 
Flushing    my    brain    and    fancy;     but 

through  all 
The  ruddy  vision  glides  a  tender  shade. 
And  pauses   with  mute  meaning  by  a 

crave. 


ODE. 

Delivered  on  the  First  Anniversary  of  the  Car- 
olina Art  Association,  Feb.  10,  1856. 

There  are  two  worlds  wherein  our  souls 

may  dwell, 
With  discord,  or  ethereal  music  fraught. 
One  the  loud  mart  wherein  men  buy  and 

sell 
(Too  oft  the  haunt  of  grovelling  moods 

of  Hell), 
The   other,   that   immaculate   realm   of 

thought, 
In  wThose  bright  calm  the  master-wTork- 

men  wrought, 
Where  genius  lives  on  light, 
And  faith  is  lost  in  sight, 
Where  crystal  tides  of  perfect  harmony 

swell 


10 


YOUTHFUL    POEMS. 


Up   to   the  heavens   that  never  held   a 

cloud. 
And  round  great  altars  reverent  hosts 

are  bowed, 
Altars   upreared    to    love    that    cannot 

die, 
To  beauty  that  forever  keeps  its  youth, 
To    kingly    grandeur,   and    to  virginal 

truth. 
To  all  things  wise  and  pure, 
Whereof  our  God  hath  said,  "  Endure! 

endure ! 
Ye  are  but  parts  of  me, 
The  hath  been,  and  the  evermore  to  be, 
Of  my  supremest  Immortality!  " 

We  falter  in  the  darkness  and  the  dearth 
Which  sordid  passions  and  untamed  de- 
sires 
Create  about  us ;  universal  earth 
Groans  with  the  burden  of  our  sensual 

woes ; 
The   heart  heaven  gave  for  homage  is 

consumed 
By  the  wild  rages  of  unhallowed  fires; 
The    blush   of    that   fine    glory    which 

illumed 
The  earlier  ages,  hath  gone  out  in  gloom ; 
There  is  no  joy  within  us,  no  repose, 
One  creed  our  beacon,  and  one  god  our 

hold, 
The  creed,  the  god,  of  gold ; 
The   heavenward   winged  Instinct  that 

aspires, 
Like    a    lost    seraph    with    dishevelled 

plume, 
Pants  humbled  in  the  "slough  of  deep 

Despond; " 
The  present  binds  us,  there  is  no  Beyond, 
Xo  glorious  Future  to  the  soul  content 
With  the  poor  husks  and  garbage  of  this 

world; 
And  are  indeed  the  wings  of   worship 

furled 
Forevermore  ?    Is  no  evangel  blent, 
Xo    sweet  evangel,  with   the  hiss  and 

hum 
Of    the   century's   wheels  of  progress  ? 

Science  delves 


Down  to  the  earth's  hot  vitals,  and  ex- 
plores 

Realms  arctic  and  antarctic,  the  strange 
shores 

Of  remote  seas,  or  with  raised  vision 
stands, 

All  undismayed,  amidst  the  starry  lands: 

Man    too,    material     man,    our     baser 
selves, 

She  hath  unmasked  even  to  the  source  of 
being; 
Almost  she  seems  a  god, 
Deep-searching  and  far-seeing; 

And  yet  how  oft  like  some  wild  funeral 
wail 

Which    goes   before  the  burial   of   our 
hopes. 

Emerging  from  the  starry-blazoned  copes 

Of  highest  firmaments,  or  darkest  vale 

Of  the  nether  earth,  or  from  the  burdened 
air 

Of  chambers  where  this  mortal  frame  lies 
bare, 

Probed  to  the  core,    her   saddening  ac- 
cents come; 

"  What!  call'st  thou  man  a  seraph  ?  nay, 
a  clod, 

The  veriest  clod  when  his  frail  breath  is 
spent, 

Man   shows    to    us    who    know    him  ; 
what  is  he '? 

A  speck!  the  merest  dew-globe  'midst 
the  sea 
Of  life's  infinity;" 

Or,  "  we  have  probed,  dissected  all  we 
can, 

But  never  yet,  in  any  mortal  man, 

Found  we  the  spirit !  thing  of  time  and 
clay, 

Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  transient  insect- 
day!" 

Thus  Science ;  but  while  still  her  mock- 
ing voice 

Rings  with  a  cold  sharp  clearness  in  our 
ears, 

Her  beauteous  sister,  on  whose  brow  the 
years 

Have  left  no  cankering  vestige  of  de- 
cay, 


ODE. 


11 


Eternal  Art,  she  of  the  fathomless  eyes 

From  the  deep  bosom  of  the  purpling 

Brimming  with  light,  half  worship,  half 

air 

surprise, 

A     lambent     glory     broke     along     the 

In  whose  right  hand  a  branch  of  fadeless 

vast 

palms. 

Horizon  line, whence  clouds,  like  incense, 

Plucked  from  the  depths  of  golden  shad- 

rolled 

owed  calms, 

Athwart  a  firmamental  arc  of  gold 

Points  upward  to  the  skies, 

And  sapphire;    clouds  not  vapor-born, 

She  answers    in    a    minor,   sweet    and 

But  clasping  each  the  radiant  seeds  of 

strange 

morn, 

The  while,  all  graces  in  her  aspect  meet, 

Which  suddenly,  clear  zenith  heights  at- 

And Doubt  anil  Fear  shrink  shuddering 

tained, 

at  her  feet, 

Burst  into  light,  unfolding  like  a  flower, 

"I  bring  a  nobler  message!    Soul,  re- 

From out  whose  quivering  heart  a  mystic 

joice  ! 

shower 

Rise  with  me  from  thy  troublous  toils  of 

Of  splendor  rained : 

sense, 

A  spell  was  hers  to  conquer  time  and 

Thy  bootless   struggles,  born   of   impo- 

space, 

tence, 

For  from  the  desert  grandeur  of   that 

Rise  to  a  subtler  view,  a  broader  range 

place 

Of  thought  and  aim; 

A  hundred  temples  rise, 

Mine  is  a  sway  ideal, 

The  marble  poems  of  the  bards  of  old, 

But  still  the  works  I  prompt,  alone,  are 

Whereon  'twere  well  to  look  with  rever- 

real; 

ent  eyes, 

Mine  is  a  realm  from  immemorial  time 

Because  they  body  noblest  aspirations, 

Begirt  by  deeds  and  purposes  sublime, 

Ethereal   hopes,   and  winged   imagina- 

Whose consecration  is  faith's  quenchless 

tions, 

flame, 

Whether  to  fabled  Jove  their  walls  were 

Whose   voices   are  the   songs  of    poet- 

raised, 

sages, 

Or  on  their  inner  altar  offerings  blazed 

Whose  strong  foundations  resting  on  the 

To  wise  Athena,  or,  in  Christian  Rome 

ages, 

Beneath    St.     Peter's    mighty    circling 

The  throes  and  crash  of  empires  have 

dome, 

not  shaken, 

A  second  Heaven,    the  golden  censers 

Nor  any  futile  force  of  human  rages. 

swing, 

The  clear-toned  choirs  those  hymns  of 

"Come!  let  us  enter  in! 

rapture  sing, 

Behold,   the    portal    gates    stand    open 

Which,  on  harmonious  waves  of  gratula- 

wide ! 

tion, 

Only,  from  off  thy  spirit  shake  the  dust 

The  outburst  of  the  sense  of  deep  salva- 

Of any  thought  of  sin, 

tion, 

Or  sordid  pride, 

Uplift  the  spirit  where  the   Incarnate 

For  sacred  is  the  kingdom  of  my  trust, 

Word 

By  mind,  and  sti'ength,  and  beauty  sanc- 

Amid the  praise  no  ear  of   man  hath 

tified." 

heard, 

The  peace  no  mind  of  man  can  compre- 

She spake!  and  o'er  the  threshold  of  a 

hend, 

sphere, 

Awaits  to  welcome  Time's  worn  wander- 

A marvellous  sphere,  they  passed ; 

ers  home ! 

12 


YOUTHFUL   POEMS. 


"  But  look  again!"  Art's  eager  Genius 

Moves  as  he  moved  below, 

cried : 

Save  that  his  smitten  vision 

>-  Thou  hast  not  seen  the  end, 

Rekindled  at  the  fount  of  fire  Elysian, 

Scarce  the  beginning ! "     As  she  spake,  a 

Burns  with   a   subtler,  grander,  deepei 

tide 

glow; 

Of  all  the  mighty  masters,  loved,  adored, 

And  yonder  yEschylus,  with  "  thunder- 

From  out   the   shining    distant    spaces 

ous  brow," 

poured, 

Scarred  by  the  lightning  of  his  own  crea- 

All  those  who    fashioned,   through   an 

tions, 

inward  dower, 

Wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  sombre  medita- 

The  concrete  forms   of  beauty  and   of 

tions, 

power ; 

Hath  seized  the  tragic   muse,  as   if  to 

Whether  from  white  Pentelic  quarries 

her 

brought, 

He  scorned  to  bend  an  humble  worship- 

The voiceless  stone  uprose,  a  breathing 

per, 

thought, 

But  would  extort  her  gifts ; 

Or,  from   the   mystic  rays  of  rainbows 

Then  Shakespeare  mild, 

drawn, 

Blessed  with  the  innocent  credence  of  a 

And  colors  of  the  sunset  and  the  dawn, 

child, 

The  painter's  pencil  his  ideal  fine, 

With  a  child's  thoughts  and  fancies  un- 

Had  clothed  in  hues  divine; 

defiled, 

Or,  skilled  in  living  words 

And  yet  a  Magian  strong 

Melodious  as  the  natural  voice  of  birds 

To  whom  the  springs  of  terrible  fears 

(But  each  a  sentient  thing,  a  meaning 

belong, 

grand, 

Of  majesty,  and  beauty,  and  delight, 

It  is  not  given  to  all  to  understand ) , 

To  the  weird  charm  of  whose  infallible 

The  poet    from    the    shade    of   breezy 

sight, 

woods, 

The  heart's  emotions, 

From  barren  seaside  solitudes, 

Though  turbid  as  the  tides  of   darkest 

And  from  the  pregnant  quiet  of  his  soul 

oceans, 

Outbreathed  the  numbers  that  forever 

Shone  clear  as  water  of  the  woodland 

roll 

brooks — 

Perennial,  as  the  fountains  of  the  sea, 

He  passed  with  wisdom  throned  in  his 

And  deep  almost  as  deep  eternity ! 

looks 

Attempered    by    the    genial    heats    of 

Near  and  yet  nearer  the  bright  concourse 

wit ; 

came, 

While  close  beside  him,  his  grand  coun- 

Their faces  all  aflame, 

tenance  lit 

As  when  of  yore  the  quick  creative  thrill 

By  thoughts  like   those  which  wrought 

Did  smite  them  into  utterance,  and  the 

his  Judgment  Day, 

throng, 

Grave  Michel  Angelo 

Awed  by  the  fiery  burden  of  the  song, 

His  massive  forehead  lifts, 

Grew  reverent  pale  and  still ; 

In  a  strange  Titan  fashion,  unto  Heaven; 

O !  solemn  and  sublime  Apocalypse 

Next  Raphael  conies,  with  calm  and  star- 

That wresteth,  from  the  dreary  death- 

like  mien. 

eclipse, 

Fresh  from  the  beatific  ecstasy, 

The  sacred  presence  of  these  marvellous 

His  face  how  beautiful,  and  how  serene! 

men ! 

Since  God  for   him  the  awful  veil  had 

Yonder  the  visible  Homer  moves  again, 

riven 

QUEEN  GALENA  —  THE  POETS  TRUST  IN  HIS  SORROW.        13 


That  shrouds  Divinity, 
And  rolled  before  his  wondering  mind 

and  eye 
Visions  that  we  should  gaze  on  but  —  to 

die! 

They  passed,  and  thousands  more  passed 
by  with  them; 

Again  Art's  Genius  spake:  "Lo!  these 
are  they 
Who,  through  stern  tribulations, 

Have  raised  to  right  and  truth  the  sub- 
ject nations; 
Lo !  these  are  they, 

Who,  were  the  whole  bright  concourse 
swept  away, 

Their  fame's  last  barrier,  built  the  surge 
to  stem 

Of    chaos   and   oblivion,    whelmed   be- 
neath 

The  pitiless  torrent  of  eternal  death, 

Would  yet  bequeath  to  races  unbegot 

The  precepts  of  a  faith  which  faileth 
not; 

Pointing,  from  troublous  toils  of  time 
and  sense, 

From  bootless  struggles  born  of  impo- 
tence, 
To  that  fair  realm  of  thought, 

In   whose    bright    calm    these    master- 
workmen  wrought, 

Where    crystal  tides    of   perfect  music 
swell 

Up  to  the  heavens  that  never  held  a 
cloud, 

And    round    great    altars    worshipping 
hosts  are  bowed — 

Altars    upreared    to    love    that   cannot 
die, 

To  beauty  that  forever  keeps  its  youth, 

To   kingly   grandeur,    and   to    virginal 
truth, 
To  all  things  wise  and  pure, 

Whereof  our  God  hath  said :  '  Endure ! 
endure ! 
Ye  are  but  parts  of  me, 

The  hath  beex,  and  the  evermore  to 
be, 

Of  my  supremest  Immortality ! '  ' 


QUEEN    GALENA,    OR    THE    SULTANA 
BET II A  YED. 

Hold!  let  the  heartless  perjurer  go! 
Speak  not!  strike  not!  he  is  uty  foe, 
From  me,  me  only,  comes  the  blow  — 
1  will  repay  him  woe  for  woe ; 
Look  in  my  eyes!  my  eyes  are  dry, 
I  breathe  no  plaint,  I  heave  no  sigh, 
But  —  will  avenge  me  ere  I  die. 

Think  you  that  I  shall  basely  rest, 
And  know  the  bosom  mine  hath  prest, 
Is  couched  upon  a  colder  breast  ? 
Think  you  that  I  shall  yield  the  West, 
The  Orient  soul  my  nature  nurst, 
Till  the  black  seed  of  treachery  burst 
And  blossomed  to  this  deed  accurst  ? 

My  rival !     O !  her  glance  is  meek, 
Her  faltering  presence  wan,  and  weak 
As  the  faint  flush  that  tints  her  cheek. 
'Tis  not  on  her  that  I  would  wreak 
My  vengeance  —  sooner  would  I  wring 
Life  from  an  insect-birth  of  spring 
Than  palter  with  so  poor  a  thing. 

But  he  —  I  tell  you  if  he  flew, 
As  it  was  once  his  wont  to  do, 
Kepentant  —  pleading  —  quick  to  woo, 
With  all  his  wild  heart  flaming  through 
The  glance  of  passion  —  it  were  sweet, 
Yea,  more!  'twere   righteous,  just,  and 

meet, 
To  slay  him  kneeling  at  my  feet ! 

He  shall  not  wed  her;  by  Heaven's  light 
He  shall  not;  o'er  my  lurid  sight 
Throbs  a  thick  fire;  the  ancient  might 
Of  a  stern  race  is  stirred  to-night; 
My  sovereign  claim  annul  —  disown ! 
I  will  repay  him  groan  for  groan, 
Or  —  stab  him  at  the  altar-stone! 


THE  POET'S   TRUST  IN  HIS  SORROW. 

O  God  !   how  sad  a  doom  is  mine, 

To  human  seeming: 
Thou  hast  called  on  me  to  resign 
So  much  —  much !  — all  —  but  the  divine 

Delights  of  dreaming. 


14 


YOUTHFUL   POEMS. 


I  set  my  dreams  to  music  wild, 

A  wealth  of  measures ; 
My  lays,  thank  Heaven!  are  undented, 
I  sport  with  Fancy  as  a  child 

With  golden  leisures. 

And  long  as  fate,  not  wholly  stern, 

But  this  shall  grant  me, 
Still  with  perennial  faitli  to  turn 
Where  Song's  unsullied  altars  burn 

Nought,  nought  shall  daunt  me! 

What  though  my  worldly  state  be  low 

Beyond  redressing; 
I  own  an  inner  flame  whose  glow 
Makes  radiant  all  the  outward  show ; 

My  last  great  blessing! 


THE   BROOK. 

But  yesterday  this  brook  was  bright, 
And  tranquil  as  the  clear  moonlight, 
That  wooes  the  palms  on  Orient  shores, 
But  now,  a  hoarse,  dark  stream,  it  pours 
Impetuous  o'er  its  bed  of  rock, 
And  almost  with  a  thunder-shock 
Boils  into  eddies,  fierce  and  fleet, 
That  dash  the  white   foam  round   our 

feet, 
A  raging  whirl  of  waters,  rent 
As  if  with  angry  discontent ! 

A  tempest  in  the  night  swept  by, 
Born  of  a  murk  and  fiery  sky, 
And  while  the  solid  woodlands  shook, 
It  wreaked  its  fury  on  the  brook. 
The  evil  genius  of  the  blast 
Within  its  quiet  bosom  passed, 
And  therefore  this  transfigured  tide, 
Which  used  as  lovingly  to  glide 
As  thought  through  spirits  sanctified, 
Rolls  now  a  whirl  of  waters,  rent 
As  if  with  angry  discontent. 

I  knew,  of  late,  a  creature,  bright 
And  gentle  as  the  clear  moonlight, 
The  tenderest  and  the  kindest  heart 
That  ever  played  Love's  selfless  part, 


Across  whose  unperturbed  life, 

A  sudden  passion  swept,  in  strife, 

With  wild,  unhallowed  forces  rife. 

It  stirred  her  nature's  inmost  deep, 

That  nevermore  shall  rest  or  sleep, 

Remorse,  its  rugged  bed  of  rock, 

O'er  which  for  aye,  with  thunder-shock, 

The  tides  of  feeling,  fierce  and  fleet, 

Are  dashed  to  foam  or  icy  sleet, 

A  raging  whirl  of  waters,  rent 

By  something  worse  than  discontent ! 


NATURE    THE   CONSOLER. 

Gladly    I    hail    these    solitudes,    and 

breathe 
The  inspiring  breath  of  the  fresh  wood- 
land air, 
Most  gladly  to  the  past  alone  bequeath 

Doubt,  grief,  and  care; 
I  feel  a  new-born  freedom  of  the  mind, 
Nursed  at  the  breast  of  Nature,  with  the 

dew 
Of  glorious  dawns ;  I  hear  the  mountain 

wind, 
Clear  as  if  elfin  trumpets  loudly  blew, 
Peal   through   the   dells,  and  scale   the 

lonely  height, 
Bousing  the  echoes  to  a  quick  delight, 
Bending    the    forest    monarchs    to    its 

"will, 
'Till  all  their  pond'rous  branches  shake 

and  thrill 
In  the  wide-wakening  tumult;  far  above 
The  heavens  stretch  calm  and  blessing; 

far  below 
The  mellowing  fields  are  touched  with 

evening's  glow, 
And  many  a  pleasant  sight  and  sound  I 

love 
Would  gently  woo  me  from  all  thoughts 

of  woe: 
Sunlighted     meadows,     music     in     the 

grove, 
From  happy  bird-throats,  and  the  fairy 

rills 
That  lapse  in  silvery  murmurs  through 

the  hills ; 


'  Gladly  I  hail  these  solitudes,  and  breathe 
The  inspiring  breath  of  the  fresh  woodland  air.' 


NATURE   THE   CONSOLE II. 


15 


Great  circles   of   rich  foliage,  rainbow- 
crowned 

By    autumn's    liberal     largess,    whilst 
around 

Grave  sheep  lie  musing  on  the  pastoral 
ground. 
Or  sending  a  mild  bleat 
To  other  flocks  afar, 

The  fleecy  comrades  they  are  wont  to 
meet 

Homeward  returning  'neath  the  vesper 
star ! 

Oh,  genial  peace  of  Xature!  divine  calm 
That  fallest  on  the  spirit,  like  the  rain 
Of  Eden,  bearing  melody  and  balm 
To  soothe  the  troubled  heart  and  heal  its 

pain, 
Thy  influence  lifts  me  to  a  realm  of  joy, 
A    moonlight    happiness,    intense    but 

mild, 
L  nvisited  by  shadow  of  alloy, 
And  flushed  with  tender  dreams  and  fan- 
cies undefiled. 

I  The  universe  of  God  is  still,  not  dumb, 
For  many  voices  in  sweet  undertone 

To  reverent  listeners  come; 
And  many  thoughts,  with  truth's   own 

honey  laden. 
Into   the  watcher's  wakeful  brain  have 
flown, 
Charming  the  inner  ear 
With  harmonies  so  low,  and  yet  so  clear, 
So  undefined,  yet  pregnant  with  a  feeling, 
An  inspiration  of  sublime  revealing. 
That  they  whose  being  the  strong  spell 
shall  hold, 
Do  look  on  earthly  things 
Through  atmospheres  of  rich  imaginings, 
And  find,  in  all  they  see, 
A  meaning  manifold ; 
The  forces  of  divine  vitality 
Break  through  the  sensual  gloom 

About  them  furled, 
All  instinct  with  the  radiant  grace  and 

bloom 
Caught  from  the  glories   of   a  lovelier 
world- 


A  lovelier  world !  in  the  thronged  space 

on  high, 
Dwells  there  indeed  a  fairer  star  than 

ours, 
Circled  by  sunsets  of  more  gorgeous  dye, 
And   gifted  with  an  ampler  wealth  of 

flowers  ? 
Can  heavenly  bounty  lavish  richer  stores 
Of  color,  fragrance,  beauty,  and  delight 

On  mortal  or  immortal  sight, 
In  any  sphere  that  rolls  around  the  sun  ? 
See  what  a  splendor  from  the  dying  day 
Through  the  grand  forest  pours ! 
Xow,  lighting  up  its  veteran-crests  with 

glory. 
Xow,  slanting  down  the  shadows  dim  and 

hoary, 
Till,  in  the  long-drawn  gloom  of  leafy 

glades, 
At  the   far   close  of    their  impervious 

shades, 
The  purple  splendor  softly  melts  away ! 

Xow,  overarched  by  dewy  canopies, 

And  awed  by  dimness  that  is   hardly 
gloom,  [lips, 

We  stand  amidst  the  silence  with  hushed 

Watching  the   dubious  glimmer  of  the 
skies 

Paled  by  the  foliage  to  a  half-eclipse, 
And  struggling  for  full  room, 

With  intermittent  gleams,  that  quickly 
die 

In  throbs  and  tremors,  waning  suddenly 

To  the  mere  ghosts  of  flame,  to  appari- 
tions 

Impalpable  as  star-beams  in  deep  seas. 

Lost    in    the    dark  below  the   surface- 
ruffling  breeze. 

ftions, 

Latest   of    all   these  marvellous   transi- 

And   crowning  all  with  their  ineffable 
grace, 

The  eyes  of  the  night's  empress,  witch- 
ing sweet, 

Scatter    the    shadows    in    each    secret 
place, 

So   that,    where'er   her  beamy  glances 
fleet, 


16 


YOUTHFUL   POEMS, 


Shot  through  and   through,  as  if   with 

arrowy  might, 
The   dusky  gloaming  falls   before   her 

shafts  of  light. 


THE   S 0 UL-COXFLICT. 
\ 
Defeated!  but  never  disheartened! 

Repulsed!  but  uneonquered  in  will, 
Upon  dreary  discomfitures  building 

Her  virtue's  strong  battlements  still, 
The  soul,  through  the  siege  of  tempta- 
tions, 

Yields  not  unto  fraud,  nor  to  might, 
Unquelled  by  the  rush  of  the  passions, 

Serene  'mid  the  tumults  of  fight. 

She  sees  a  grand  prize  in  the  distance, 

She  hears  a  glad  sound  of  acclaims, 
The  crown  wrought  of  blooms  amaran- 
thine, 

The  music  far  sweeter  than  Fame's. 
And  so,  'gainst  the  rush  of  the  passions 

She  lifts  the  broad  buckler  of  right, 
And  so,  through  the  glooms  of  tempta- 
tion, 

She  walks  in  a  splendor  of  light. 


THE  PUESEXTIMEXT. 

Over  her  face,  so  tender  and  meek, 
The  light  of  a  propbecy  lies, 

That  has  silvered  the  red  of  the  rose  on 
her  cheek, 
And  chastened  the  thought  in  her  eyes ! 

Beautiful  eyes,  with  an  inward  glance, 
To  the  spirit's  mystical  deep; 

Lost  in  the  languid  gleam  of  a  trance, 
More  solemn  and  saintly  than  sleep. 

And,  forever  and  ever,  she  seems  to  hear 
The  voice  of  a  spirit  implore, 

"  Come!  enter  the  life  that  is  noble  and 
clear; 
Come!  grow  to  my  heart  once  more." 

And,  forever  and  ever,  she  mutely  turns 
From  a  mortal  lover's  sighs; 


And  fainter  the   red   of   the  rose-flush 
burns, 
And  deeper  the  thought  in  her  eyes. 

The  seeds  are  warm  of  the  churchyard 
flowers, 
That  will  blossom  above  her  rest, 
And  a  bird  that  shall  sing  by  the  old 
church  towers, 
Is  already  fledged  in  its  nest ! 

And  so,  when  a  blander  summer  shall 
smile, 
On  some  night  of  soft  July, 
We  will   lend   to  the   dust  her  beauty 
awhile, 
In  the  hush  of  a  moonless  sky. 

And    later    still,   shall    the   churchyard 
flowers, 
Gleam  nigh  with  a  white  increase; 
And  a  bird  outpour,  by  the  old  church 
towers, 
A  plaintive  poem  of  peace. 


THE    TWO   SUMMERS. 

There  is  a  golden  season  in  our  year, 
Between  October's  bale  and  lusty  cheer, 
And  the  hoar  frost  of  winter's  empire 
drear ; 

Which,  like  a  fairy  flood  of  mystic  tides, 
Whereon  divine  tranquillity  abides, 
The  kingdom  of  the  sovereign  months 
divides; 

The  wailing  autumn  winds  their  requiems 

cease, 
Ere  winter's  sturdier  storms  have  gained 

release, 
And  heaven  and  earth  alike  are  bright 

with  peace. 

O  soul!   thou  hast    thy  golden   season 

too! 
A  blissful  interlude  of  birds  and  dew, 
Of  balmy  gales,  and  skies  of  deepest  blue ! 


LINES. 


17 


That  second  summer,  when  thy  work  is 

done, 
The  harvest  hoarded,  and  the  mellow  sun 
Gleams  on  the  fruitful  fields  thy  toil  has 

won ; 

Which,  also,  like  a  fair  mysterious  tide, 
Whereon  calm  thoughts   like   ships   at 

anchor  ride, 
Doth  the  broad  empire  of  thy  years  di- 
vide. 

This  passed,  what  more  of  life's  brief 
path  remains, 

Winds  through  unlighted  vales,  and  dis- 
mal plains, 

The  haunt  of  chilling  blight,  or  fevered 
pains. 

Pray,  then,  ye  happy  few,  along  whose 

way  [ray, 

Life's  Indian  summer  pours  its  purpling 

That  ye  may  die  ere  dawns  the  evil  day. 

Sink  on  that  season's  kind  and  genial 
breast, 

While  peace  and  sunshine  rule  the  cloud- 
less west, 

The  elect  of  God,  whom  life  and  death 
have  blessed ! 


LINES. 

"  Though  dowered  with   instincts    keen   and 
high." 

"  I  weep 
My  youth,  and  its  brave  hopes,  all  dead  and 

gone, 
In  tears  which  burn."  —  Paracelsus. 

Though  dowered  with  instincts  keen  and 
high. 
With  burning  thoughts  that  wooed  the 
light, 
The  scornful  world  hath  passed  him  by, 
And  left  him  lonelier  than  the  night. 

Yes!  cold  and  hopeless,  one  by  one 
The  stars  of  faith  have  quenched  their 
flame, 

And  like  a  waning  polar  sun, 
Declines  the  latest  hope  of  fame. 


He  longed  to  sing  one  noble  song, 

To  thrill,  with  passion's  living  breath, 

The  fools  whose  scorn  had  worked  him 
wrong, 
And  baffle  fate,  and  conquer  death. 

Dear  God !  dost  thou  endow  with  powers, 
Whose  aspirations  mock  the  bars 

Of  time  and  sense,  whose  vision  towers 
Irradiate  'mid  thy  sovereign  stars, 

Only  to  furnish  some  faint  gleams' 
Of  loftier  beauty,  quick  withdrawn, 

Leaving  a  frenzied  hell  of  dreams, 
And  wailings  for  the  vanished  dawn  ? 

The  oracles  of  fancy  mute, 

Ambition's  priests  dethroned  and  fled, 
He  wanders  with  a  timeless  lute, 

Through  dreary  regions  of  the  dead. 

But  from  that  place  of  bale  uploom 
The  phantoms  of  unburied  years, 

The  haunting  care,  the  grief,  the  gloom, 
The  treacherous  hopes,  the  pale-eyed 
fears 

That  stormed  his  spirit's  brave  design, 
That   clogged  its  wings,   betrayed   its 
trust, 

Defaced  its  creed,  and  dashed  the  wine 
In  song's  bright  chalice,  to  the  dust. 

Ah,  Heaven!  could  he  retrace  his  life 
From   out   this   realm   of    doubt  and 
dearth. 
He   would    not    court    thought's    eagle 
strife. 
But  clasp  the  calm  that  clings  to  earth. 

Above,  the  threatening  thunders  wait 
For  dauntless  souls  that  dare  aspire, 

But  lowly  lives  are  safe  from  hate, 
And  peace  is  wed  to  meek  desire. 

Yet,  birds  that  breast  the  turbulent  air 
Are   worthier  than    the    things    that 
creep, 

And  nobler  is  a  high  despair 

Than  weak  content,  or  sluggish  sleep. 


18 


YOUTHFUL   POEMS. 


SONG. 

O !  your  eyes  are  deep  and  tender, 
O !  your  charmed  voice  is  low. 

But  I've  found  your  beauty's  splendor 
All  a  mockery  and  a  show ; 

Slighted  heart  and  broken  promise 
Follow  wheresoe'er  you  go. 

All  your  words  are  fair  and  golden, 
All  your  actions  false  and  wrong, 

Not  the  noblest  soul's  beholden 
To  your  weak  affections  long; 

Only  true  in  —  lover's  fancy, 
Onlv  constant  in  —  his  song. 


ox  a  po  urn  ait. 

A  widower  muses  over  the  likeness  of  liis  dead 
wife. 

The  face,  the  beautiful  face, 
In  its  living  flush  and  glow. 
The  perfect  face  in  its  peerless  grace 
That  I  worshipped  long  ago ; 
Tbat    1    worshipped    when    youth    was 
strong  and  bold, 
That  I  worship  now. 
Though  the  pulse  of  youth  grows  faint 
and  low. 
And  the  ashes  of  hope  are  cold. 

The  face,  the  beautiful  face, 

Ever  haunting  my  heart  and  brain. 
Bringing  ofttimes  a  dream  of  heaven, 
Oft  times  the  pang  of  a  pain 
Which   darteth   down    like   a   lightning 
flash 
To  the  dreadful  deeps. 
Where  the  gems  of  a  shipwrecked  life 
are  cast, 
And  its  dead  cold  promise  sleeps. 

Sweet  face!  shall  I  meet  thee  again, 
In  the  passionless  land  of  palms. 
By  the  verge  of  Heaven's  enchanted 
streams 
In  the  hush  of  its  perfect  calms; 
Or,  forever  and  ever,  and  evermore, 
While  the  years  depart. 
While  the  aires  roll. 


Walk  the  glooms  of  a  ghostly  shore, 
Made  wild   by  a   phantom-haunted 

brain, 
And  a  cloud-encircled  soul; 
By  a   haunted    brain   and    a    cheerless 
heart. 
While  the  years  and  the  ages  roll  ? 

No  answer  comes  to  my  cry, 

Though  out  of  the  depths  I  call: 
Not  the  faintest  gleam  of  a  hopeful 
beam 
Shines  over  the  shroud  and  pall. 
My  soul  is  clothed  with  sackcloth  and 
dust, 
And  I  look  from  my  widowed  hearth 
With  a  vacant    eye   on  the  tumult 

and  stir  ' 
Of  this  weary,  dreary  earth; 
For  my  soul  is  dead  and  its  hopes  are 

dust. 
And  the  joy  of  passion,  the  strength  of 
trust. 
These  passed  from   the  world  with 
her. 


THE   SHADOW. 

The  pathway  of  his  mournful  life  hath 

wound 
Beneath  a  shadow;  just  beyond  it  play 
The  genial  breezes,  and  the  cool  brooks 

stray 
Into  melodious  gushings  of  sweet  sound, 
Whilst  ample  floods  of  mellow  sunshine 

fall 
Like  a  mute  rain  of  rapture  over  all. 

Oft  hath  he  deemed  the  spell  of  darkness 

lost, 
And   shouted   to   the  dayspring:   a   full 

glow  [woe. 

Hath  rushed  to  clasp  him;  but  the  subtle 
Unvanquished,  ever,  with  the  might  of 

frost. 
Regains   its  sad   realm,  and  with  voice 

malign 
Saith  to  the  dawning  joy:  "  This  life  is 

mine!  " 


THE  WINTER  WINDS— UNDER    SENTENCE. 


19 


Still  smiles  the  brave  soul,  undivorced 
from  hope ! 

And,  with  unwavering  eye  and  warrior 
mien, 

Walks  in  the  shadow,  dauntless  and 
serene, 

To  test,  through  hostile  years,  the  ut- 
most scope 

Of  man's  endurance  —  constant  to  essay 

All  heights  of  patience  free  to  feet  of 
clay. 

Still  smiles  the  brave  soul,  undivorced 
from  hope ! 

But  now,  methinks,  the  pale  hope  gath- 
ers strength; 

Glad  winds  invade  the  silence;  streams, 
at  length, 

Flash  through  the  desert;  'neath  the 
sapphire  cope 

Of  deepening  heavens  he  hails  a  happier 
day, 

And  the  spent  shadow  mutely  wanes 
away. 


THE    WINTER    WINDS    MAY    WILDLY 
RA  VE. 

The  winter  winds  may  wildly  rave, 
How  wildly  o'er  thy  place  of  rest! 

But.  love!  thou  hast  a  holier  grave, 
Deep  in  a  faithful  human  breast. 

There,  the  embalmer.  Memory,  bends, 
Watching,  with  softly-breathed  sighs, 

The  mystic  light  her  genius  lends 
To  fadeless  cheeks  and  tender  eyes. 

There  in  a  fathomless  calm,  serene, 
Thy  beauty  keeps  its  saintly  trace, 

The  radiance  of  an  angel  mien, 
The  rapture  of  a  heavenly  grace. 

And  there,  O  gentlest  love!  remain 
(No  stormy  passion  round  thee  raves), 

Till,  soul  to  soul,  we  meet  again. 
Beyond  this  ghostly  realm  of  graves. 


UNDER   SENTENCE. 

Place  —  Scotland.      Time  —  Thirteenth 

Century. 

Off  !  off  !  No  treacherous  priest  for  me ! 
What's  Heaven  ?  what's  Hell  ?  Eternity! 
It  hath  no  meaning  to  mine  ear, 

Unless Stay,  father !     Canst  thou 

swear 
By  holy  Rood,  that  I  shall  meet 
Him  there,  whose  crime  made  murder 

sweet '? 
Him  whose  black  soul  I've  hurled  be- 
fore ? 
He's    gone!      How    cold    my    dungeon 

floor! 
And  the  rack  wrenches  still !    This  hand, 
Which  stiffened  to  a  fire-hot  band 
Of  steel,  crushing  his  base  breath  out, 
They've  foully  mangled!     See  that  gout 
Of    blood    there  —  there,    too  !      What 

care  I  ? 
It  did  its  work  well:  let  it  lie! 

I'd  give  ten  mortal  lives,  I  trow, 
As  full  of  sweets  as  mine  of  woe. 
To  feel  that  quivering  throat  once  more; 
To  view  the  blue-tinged,  strangling  gore 
Spout  from  his  lips !     To  watch  the  dim 
Film  o'er  those  cruel  eyeballs  swim, 
And  the  black  anguish  of  his  stare, 
Dashed  blind  with  horror!    Lords!  be- 
ware 
Much  trifling!    We  are  dogs,  ye  ken. 
Who  yet  may  rise,  and  smite  like  men. 

What's  this  ?    Ah.  yes !  the  flower  I  took 
From  her!     I  think  her  dying  look 
Baptized  it,  for  it  keeps  so  fair. 
I  wonder  if  they  decked  her  hair 
With  other  flowers  like  this,  ere  yet 
They  lowered  her  beauty  to  the  wet, 
Dark  mould  '?     If  maiden  dust  to  flowers 
(Some  say  so)  turns,  not  all  the  bowers 
This  spring  shall  warm  will  equal  those 
To  blossom  from  her  pure  repose ! 

My  nuptial  night!     God's  blood!  what 

right 
Had  I  to  nuptials  ?     To  the  bright 


20 


YOUTHFUL   POEMS. 


Keen  joy  that  burns  on  wedded  lips  ? 
My  life-star  could  not  break  the  eclipse 
Wherein  'twas  born !     So  that  dark  doom 
Which  hounds  me  to  a  shameful  tomb, 
Ordained   that   the    fiend's    trick    they 

used 
Should    trap    me!      Faith,    love,   peace 

abused, 
1  woke  to  find  my  heart  bereft 
Of  its  one  treasure!     What  was  left  ? 
What,    but    that    mandate   Vengeance, 

hissed 
With  hot  tongue  thro'  a  seething  mist 
Of  passion ;  the  fierce  mandate,  "  Kill  ?  " 
Aye!    but  she,    too,   lay   blanched   and 

still. 

Blanched  on  the  couch  I  dreamed  would 

be 
My  wedding  couch!     Oh,  infamy! 
His  outrage  smote  her  to  the  heart; 
It  crashed  the  gates  of  life  apart, 
Where  through  her  shuddering  soul  took 

flight! 
But  ere  the  death-dew  dimmed  her  sight, 
She  gave  me,  as  I  said,  this  flower, 
And  —  one  long  smile !     To  my  last  hour 
I've  shrined   her  smile!      If,   if    some- 
where 
There  be  a  heaven,  benign  and  fair, 
Its  saints,  I  feel,  must  smile  so  there! 

Dread  God!  couldst  thou  have  marked 

my  wrong, 
Yet    sheathed    thy   lightning?      I  was 

strong 
And  lusty  as  the  hillside  roe; 
Could  wield   the   brand   and   bend   the 

bow 
So  deftly,  that  his  lordship  deigned 
To  show  me  favor!    Was  it  feigned  ? 
I  know  not!    His  last  kindness  took 
A  strange  shape  truly ;  for  it  shook 
My  hopes  to  atoms!     Yet  he  fell 
Prone  with  them!      Shall  we  meet   in 

hell  ? 

I  ask  again.     Ha !  if  we  do 

And  there's  a  single  nerve,  or  thew, 


Or  muscle  left  to  naked  soul, 

I'll  strangle  him  once  more;  enroll 

My    ruthless    arms    round    breast    and 

throat, 
And  wring  from  out  his  gorge  that  note 
Of  palsied  fear!     I'll  do  't,  tho'  all 
The    devils   should  pull   me   back,  and 

call 
Fresh  torments  on  my  anguished  head : 
Doubtless  they'll  take  his  part  instead. 

Of  mine,  being  devils,  and  he  the  worst; 
A  prince  amongst  their  tribes  accurst 
By  this  time;  for  a  month  has  sped, 
Beshrew  me,  since  he  joined  the  dead, 
The  damned  dead!     Full  time  I  trow, 
For  all  the  bounds  of  hell  to  know 
That  Satan's  rivalled!     Hark  without! 
The  gathering  tramp,  the  approaching 

shout 
Of    thousands!      Well,   their    scaffold's 

high; 
Fair  chance  for  all  to  see  me  die ! 


THE    VILLAGE   BEAUTY. 

The  glowing  tints  of  a  tropic  eve, 

Burn  on  her  radiant  cheek, 

And  we  know  that  her  voice  is  rich  and 

low. 
Though  we  never  have  heard  her  speak; 
So  full  are  those  gracious  eyes  of  light, 
That  the  blissful  flood  runs  o'er, 
And    wherever    her    tranquil    pathway 

tends 
A  glory  flits  on  before! 

O !  very  grand  are  the  city  belles, 

Of  a  brilliant  and  stately  mien, 

As  they  walk  the  steps  of  the  languid 

dance, 
And  flirt  in  the  pauses  between; 
But  beneath  the  boughs  of   the   hoary 

oak, 
When  the  minstrel  fountains  play, 
I  think  that  the  artless  village  girl 
Is  sweeter  by  far  than  they. 


AFTER   DEATH. 


21 


O !  very  grand  are  the  city  belles, 

But  their  hearts  are  worn  away 

By  the  keen-edged  world,  and  their  lives 

have  lost 
The  beauty  and  mirth  of  May; 
They  move  where  the  sun  and  the  starry 

dews 
Reign  not;  they  are  haughty  and  bold, 
And  they  do  not  shrink  from  the  cursed 

mart, 
Where  faith  is  the  slave  of  gold. 

But  the  starry  dews  and  the  genial  sun 
Have  gladdened  her  guileless  youth; 
And  her  brow  is  bright  with  the  flush  of 

hope, 
Her  soul  with  the  seal  of  truth; 
Her  steps  are  beautiful  on  the  hills 
As  the  steps  of  an  Orient  morn, 
And  Ruth  was  never  more  fair  to  see 
In  the  midst  of  the  autumn  corn. 


AFTER    DEATH. 

The  passionate  sobs  of  the  dear  friends 

that  came 
To  look  their  last  upon  my  living  frame, 
And  catch  the  fainting  accents  of  my 

breath. 
That    fluttered    in   the    atmosphere    of 

death, 
"Were  hushed  to  silence,  and  the  uncer- 
tain light, 
That  flickered  o'er  the  arras  to  my  sight, 
Grew  paler  and  more  tremulous,  as  life 
Sunk  'neath  the  power  of  that  unequal 
strife, 


Which  pits  humanity  against  the  spell 
Of  one  all  flesh  hath  found  invincible ! 

I  could  not  see  my  foe:  but  the  whole 

space 
Was  redolent  of  pestilence,  and  grace 
Of  all  things  beautiful,  and  grand  and 

free, 
Seemed   lost  in  darkness    evermore    to 

me : 
I  struggled  with  the  invisible  arm  that 

wound 
So  sternly  round  me,  but  could  give  no 

sound 
To  the  great  agony  that  whelmed  my 

soul 
In  surges  wilder  than  the  eternal  roll 
Of  a  world's  waters,  thundering  round 

the  Pole. 

Downward,  still  downward,  the  relent- 
less hand 

Pressed  on  my  being,  and  the  iron  wand 

Of  his  malign  enchantment  struck  my 
heart 

With  a  dull  force  that  made  the  life-blood 
start 

Forever  from  its  courses ;  then  a  sense 

Of  coming  rest,  more  dreamless  and  in- 
tense 

Than  ever  wrapped  mortality  in  still 

And  throbless  freedom  from  all  thoughts 
of  ill, 

Stole  o'er  the  vanquished  form  and  glim- 
mering sight, 

Till  silence  ruled,  with  nothingness  and 
night ! 


SONNETS. 


0 /--*©" 


-J^ 


S  O  N  N  E  T  S. 


OCTOBER. 

The  passionate  summer's  dead !  the  sky's 

aglow 
With  roseate  flushes  of  matured  desire, 
The  winds  at  eve  are  musical  and  low, 
As    sweeping    chords    of    a   lamenting 

lyre, 
Far  up  among  the  pillared  clouds  of  fire, 
Whose  pomp  of  strange  procession  up- 
ward rolls, 
With    gorgeous    blazonry    of    pictured 

scrolls, 
To  celebrate  the  summer's  past  renown; 
Ah,  me!  how  regally  the  heavens  look 

down, 
O'ershadowing  beautiful  autumnal  woods 
And   harvest    fields    with   hoarded    in- 
crease brown, 
And  deep-toned  majesty  of  golden  floods, 
That  raise  their   solemn  dirges  to  the 

sky, 
To  swell  the  purple  pomp  that  floateth  by. 


LIFE  AXD  DEATH. 


Suffering!  and  y£t  majestical  in  pain; 
Mysterious!  yet,  like  spring-showers  in 

the  sun, 
Veiling  the  light  with  their  melodious 

rain, 
life  is  a  warp  of  gloom  and  glory  spun ; 
Its  darkling  phases  -are  as  clouds  that 

mourn 
Beneath  the  loftier  splendors  of  an  arch 
Where  deathless  orbs  in  golden  daylight 

burn, 


And  God's  great  pulses  beat  their  music 

march. 
The  heaven  we  worship  dimly  girt  with 

tears, 
The  spirit-heaven,  what  is  it  but  a  life. 
Lifting  its  soul  beyond  our  mortal  years 
That  oft  begin,  and  ever  end  with  strife: 
Strife  we  must  pass  to  win  a  happier 

height. 
Nature  but  travails  to  reveal  us  —  light. 

II.  — DEATH. 

Thex  whence.  O  Death !  thy  dreariness  ? 
We  know 

That  every  flower  the  breeze's  flattering 
breath 

Wooes  to  a  blush,  and  love-like  mur- 
muring low, 

Dies  but  to  multiply  its  bloom  in  death : 

The  rill's  glad,  prattling  infancy,  that 
fills 

The  woodlands  with  its  song  of  innocent 
glee, 

Is  passing  through  the  heart  of  shadowy 
hills, 

To  swell  the  eternal  manhood  of  the 
sea; 

And  the  great  stars,  Creation's  minstrel- 
fires 

Are  rolling  toward  the  central  source 
of  light, 

Where  all  their  separate  glory  but  ex- 
pires 

To  merge  into  one  world's  unbroken 
might ; 

There  is  no  death  but  change,  soul 
claspeth  soul, 

And  all  are  portion  of  the  immortal 
whole. 


26 


SONNETS. 


SHELLEY. 

Because  they  thought  his  doctrines 
were  not  just, 

Mankind  assumed  for  him  the  chasten- 
ing rod, 

And  tyrants  reared  in  pride,  and  strong 
in  lust, 

Wounded  the  nohlest  of  the  sons  of 
God; 

The  heart's  most  cherished  benefactions 
riven, 

Basely  they  strove  to  humble  and 
malign 

A  soul  whose  charities  were  wide  as 
heaven, 

Whose  deeds,  if  not  his  doctrines,  were 
divine ; 

And  in  the  name  of  Him,  whose  sun- 
shine warms 

The  evil  as  the  righteous,  deemed  it 
good 

To  wreak  their  bigotry's  relentless 
storms 

On  one  whose  nature  was  not  under- 
stood. 

Ah,  well!  God's  ways  are  wondrous;  it 
may  be 

His  seal  hath  not  been  set  to  man's 
decree. 


POETS    OF  THE   OLD  EX  TIME. 

The    brave    old   poets   sing  of    nobler 

themes 
Than   those   weak  griefs  which   harass 

craven  souls; 
Tbe  torrent  of  their  lusty  music  rolls 
Xot  through  dark  valleys  of  distempered 

dreams, 
But  murmurous  pastures  lit  by  sunny 

streams ; 
Or.  rushing  from  some  mountain  height 

of  thought, 
Swells    to    strange    meaning    that    our 

minds  have  sought 
Vainly    to    gather    from    the    doubtful 

eleams 


Of  our  more  gross  perceptions.  Oh, 
their  strains 

Nerve  and  ennoble  manhood!  no  shrill 
«T, 

Set  to  a  treble,  tells  of  querulous  woe ; 

Yet  numbers  deep-voiced  as  the  mighty 
main's 

Merge  in  the  ringdove's  plaining,  or  the 
sigh 

Of  lovers  whispering  where  sweet  rivu- 
lets flow. 


"XOW,  WHILE    THE   LEAR-GUARD." 

Now,  while  the  rear-guard  of  the  flying 

year, 
Rugged  December  on  the  season's  verge 
Marshals  his  pale  days  to  the  mournful 

dirge 
Of  muffled  winds  in  far-off  forests  drear. 
Good  friend !  turn  with  me  to  our  in-door 

cheer ; 
Draw  nigh;  the  huge  flames  roar  upon 

the  hearth, 
And  this  sly  sparkler  is  of  subtlest  birth, 
And   a    rich  vintage,   poet    souls    hold 

dear ; 
Mark  how  the   sweet   rogue  wooes  us! 

Sit  thee  down. 
And  we  will  quaff,  and  quaff,  and  drink 

our  fill. 
Topping  the  spirits   with    a   Bacchanal 

crown. 
Till  the  funereal  blast  shall  wail  no  more. 
But    silver-throated    clarions    seem    to 

thrill. 
And  shouts  of  triumph  peal  along  the 

shore. 


"PENT  IX  THIS  COMMON  SPHERE." 

Pext  in  this  common  sphere  of  sensual 

shows, 
I  pine  for  beauty;  beauty  of  fresh  mien, 
And  gentle  utterance,  and   the   charm 

serene, 
Wherewith  the  hue  of  mystic  dream-land 

glows ; 


BETWEEN  THE  SUNKEN  SUN  AND  THE  NEW  MOON. 


1  pine  for  lulling  music,  the  repose 

In  whose  fair  heaven  a  moon  of  shadowy 

Of  low-voiced  waters,  in  some  realm  be- 

round 

tween 

Wades  through  a  fading  fall  of  sunset 

The  perfect  Adenne,  and   this  clouded 

rain ;                                     [balm. 

scene 

Where  drooping  lotos-flowers,  distilling 

Of  love's  sad  loss,  and  passion's  mourn- 

Gleam by  the  drowsy  streamlets  sleep 

ful  throes; 

hath  crown' d, 

A   pleasant  country,  girt  with  twilight 

While  Care  forgets  to  sigh,  and  Peace 

calm, 

hath  balsamed  Pain. 

JiETJVEEX   THE    SUNKEN  SUN  AND    THE  NEW   MOOX." 


Between  the  sunken  sun  and  the  new 

moon, 
I  stood  in  fields  through  which  a  rivulet 

ran 
With  scarce   perceptible  motion,  not  a 

span 
Of  its  smooth  surface  trembling  to  the 

tune 
Of  sunset  breezes:  "O  delicious  boon," 
I   cried,    "of  quiet!    wise    is    Nature's 

plan, 
Who,  in  her  realm,  as  in  the  soul  of 

man. 


Alternates  storm  with  calm ,  and  the  loud 
noon 

With  dewy  evening's  soft  and  sacred 
lull: 

Happy  the  heart  that  keeps  its  twilight 
hour, 

And,  in  the  depths  of  heavenly  peace 
reclined, 

Loves  to  commune  with  thoughts  of 
tender  power; 

Thoughts  that  ascend,  like  angels  beau- 
tiful, 

A  shinins;  Jacob's  ladder  of  the  mind." 


28 


SONNETS. 


ANCIENT  MYTHS. 

Ye  pleasant  myths  of  Eld,  why  have  ye 

fled? 
The  earth  has  fallen  from  her  hlissful 

prime 
Of  summer  years,  the  dews  of  that  sweet 

time 
Are  withered  on  its  garlands  sere  and 

dead. 
No  longer  in  the  blue  fields  overhead 
We  list  the  rustling  of  immortal  wings, 
Or  hail  at  eve  the  kindly  visitings 
Of  gentle  Genii  to  fair  fortunes  wed: 
The  seas  have  lost  their  Nereids,  the  sad 

streams 
Their  gold-haired  habitants,  the  moun- 
tains lone 
Those  happy  Oreads,  and  the  blithesome 

tone 
Of   Pan's   soft  pipe   melts  only  in   our 

dreams ; 
Fitfully  fall  the  old  faith's  broken  gleams 
On  our  dull  hearts,  cold  as  sepulchral 

stone. 


0  GOD!  WHAT  GLORIOUS  SEASONS 
BLESS  THY  WOULD  ! 

O  God  !  what  glorious  seasons  bless  thy 
world ! 

See!  the  tranced  winds  are  nestling  on 
the  deep. 

The  guardian  heavens  unclouded  vigil 
keep 

O'er  the  mute  earth;  the  beach  birds' 
wings  are  furled 

Ghost-like  and  gray,  where  the  dim  bil- 
lows curled 

Lazily  up  the  sea-strand,  sink  in 
sleep, 

Save  when  the  random  fish  with  light- 
ning leap 

Flashes  above  them,  the  far  sky's  im- 
pearled 

Inland,  with  lines  of  silvery  smoke  that 
gleam 

Upward  from  quiet  hon,esteads,  thin 
and  slow: 


The  sunset  girds  me  like  a  gorgeous 
dream 

Pregnant  with  splendors,  by  whose  mar- 
vellous spell, 

Senses  and  soul  are  flushed  to  one  deep 
glow, 

The  golden  mood  of  thoughts  ineffable! 


"ALONG    THE   PATH  THY  BLEEDING 
FEET." 

Aloxg  the  path  thy  bleeding  feet  have 

trod, 
O  Christian  Mother!  do  the  martyr-years, 
Crowned  with  suffering  through  the  mist 

of  tears  [God; 

Uplift  their  brows,  thorn-circled,  unto 
Most  bitterly  our  Father's  chastening  rod 
Hath  ruled  within  thy  term  of  mortal 

days, 
Yet  in  thy  soul  spring  up  the  tones  of 

praise, 
Freely  as  flowers  from  out  a  burial-sod  : 
Nor  hath  a  tireless  faith  essayed  in  vain 
To  win  from  sorrow  that  diviner  rest, 
Which,  like  a  sunset,  purpling  through 

the  rain 
Of  dying  storms,  maketh  the  darkness 

blest; 
Grief    is    transfigured,    and    dethroned 

Fears, 
Pale  in  the  glory  beckoning  from  the 

West. 


"  too  oft  the  poet  in  elaborate 

verse:' 

Too  oft  the  poet  in  elaborate  verse. 
Flushed  with  quaint  images  and  gorgeous 

tropes, 
Casteth  a  doubtful  light,  which  is  not 

hope's. 
On   the   dark   spot  where   Death   hath 

sealed  his  curse 
In  monumental  silence.     Nature  starts 
Indignant  from  the  sacrilege  of  words 
That  ring  so  hollow,  and  forlornly  girds 
Her  great   woe  round  her;   there's  no 

trick  of  Art's, 


MOUNTAIN  SONNETS— COMPOSED  IN  AUTUMN. 


29 


But  shows  most  ghastly  by  a  new-made 

tomb. 
I  see  no  balm  in  Gilead;  he  is  lost, 
The  beautiful  soul  that  loved  thee,  thy 

life's  bloom, 
Is  withered    by   the    sudden    blighting 

frost ; 
O  Grief  !    how  mighty  ;    Creeds  !   how 

vain  ye  are : 
Earth  presses  closely,  —  Heaven  is  cold 

and  far. 


MO  UN  TA  IN  S  ONNE  TS. 

[Written  on  one  of  the  Blue  Ridge  range  of 
Mountains.] 

Here  let  me  pause  by  the  lone  eagle's 

nest, 
And   breathe   the  golden  sunlight  and 

sweet  air, 
Which  gird  and  gladden  all  this  region 

fair 
With  a  perpetual  benison  of  rest; 
Like  a  grand  purpose  that  some  god  hath 

blest, 
The  immemorial  mountain  seems  to  rise, 
Yearning  to  overtop  diviner  skies, 
Though  monarch  of  the  pomps  of  East 

and  West; 
And  pondering  here,  the  genius  of  the 

height 
Quickens  my  soul  as  if  an  angel  spake, 
And  I  can  feel  old  chains  of  custom 

break,  [light; 

And   old    ambitions    start   to   win    the 
A  calm  resolve  born  with  them,  in  whose 

might 
I    thank    thee,    Heaven  !     that    noble 

thoughts  awake. 

Here,  friend!  upon  this  lofty  ledge  sit 
down, 

And  view  the  beauteous  prospect  spread 
below, 

Around,  above  us;  in  the  noonday  glow 

How  calm  the  landscape  rests !  yon  dis- 
tant town, 

Enwreathed  with  clouds  of  foliage  like  a 
crown 


Of  rustic  honor;  the  soft,  silvery  flow 
Of  the  clear  stream  beyond  it,  and  the 

show 
Of  endless  wooded  heights,  circling  the 

brown 
Autumnal    fields,    alive    with    billowy 

grain ; 
Say !  hast  thou  ever  gazed  on  aught  more 

fair 
In  Europe,  or  the  Orient  ?    What   do- 
main 
(From    India    to    the    sunny   slopes   of 

Spain) 
Hath  beauty,  wed  to  grandeui  "n  the  air. 
Blessed  with  an  ampler  charm    a  more 

benignant  reign  ? 

The  rainbows  of  the  heaven  are  not  more 
rare, 

More  various  and  more  beautiful  to  view, 

Than  these  rich  forest  rainbows,  dipped 
in  dew 

Of  morn  and  evening,  glimmering  every- 
where 

From  wooded  dell  to  dark-blue  moun- 
tain mere; 

O  Autumn!  wondrous  painter!  every 
hue 

Of  thy  immortal  pencil  is  steeped 
through 

With  essence  of  divinity;  how  bare 

Beside  thy  coloring  the  poor  shows  of 
Art, 

Though  Art  were  thrice  inspired;  in 
dreams  alone 

(The  loftiest  dreams  wherein  the  soul 
takes  part) 

Of  jasper  pavements,  and  the  sapphire 
throne 

Of  Heaven,  hath  such  unearthly  bright- 
ness shone 

To  flush  and  thrill  the  visionary  heart! 

COMPOSED  IN  AUTUMN. 

With  these  dead  leaves  stripped  from  a 

withered  tree, 
And  slowly  fluttering  round  lis,  gentle 

friend, 


30 


SONNETS. 


Some  faithless  soul  a  sad  presage  might 
blend; 

To  me  they  bring  a  happier  augury ; 

Lives  that  shall  bloom  in  genial  sun- 
shine free, 

Nursed  by  the  spell  Love's  dews  and 
breezes  send, 

And  when  a  kindly  Fate  shall  speak  the 
end, 

Down  dropping  in  Time's  autumn  si- 
lently; 

All  hopes  fulfilled,  all  passions  duly 
blessed. 

Life's  cup  of  gladness  drained,  except 
the  lees, 

Xo  more  to  fear  or  long  for,  but  the 
rest 

Winch  crowns  existence  with  its  dream- 
less ease; 

Thus  when  our  days  are  ripe,  oh !  let  us 
fall 

Into  that  perfect  Peace  which  waits  for 
all! 


GREAT   POETS  AND   SMALL. 

Shall  I  not  falter  on  melodious  wing, 
In  that  my  notes  are  weak  and  may  not 

rise 
To  those  world-wide  entrancing  harmo- 
nies, 
Which  the  great  poets  to  the  ages  sing  ? 
Shall  my  thought's  humble  heaven  no 

longer  ring 
With  pleasant  lays,  because  the  empyreal 

height 
Stretches  beyond  it,  lifting  to  the  light 
The  anointed  pinion  of  song's  radiant 

king ?  [flight 

Ah !  a  false  thought !  the  thrush  her  fitful 
Ventures  in  vernal  dawns ;  a  happy  note 
Trills    from  the  russet  linnet's   gentle 

throat, 
Though  far  above  the  eagle   soars  in 

might, 
And    the     glad    skylark  —  an    ethereal 

mote  — 
Sings   in  high  realms  that    mock    our 

straining  sight. 


MY  STUDY. 

Tins  is  my  world!  within  these  narrow 

walls, 
I  own  a  princely  service ;  the  hot  care 
And   tumult  of    our    frenzied    life    are 

here 
But  as  a  ghost,  and  echo;  what  befalls 
In   the   far   mart   to    me    is    less   than 

naught; 
I  walk  the  fields  of  quiet  Arcadies, 
And    wander    by    the    brink  of   hoary 

seas, 
Calmed  to  the  tendance  of  untroubled 

thought : 
Or  if  a  livelier  humor  should  enhance 
The  slow-timed  pulse,  'tis  not  for  present 

strife. 
The  sordid  zeal  with  which  our  age  is 

rife. 
Its  mammon  conflicts  crowned  by  fraud 

or  chance, 
But  gleamings  of  the  lost,  heroic  life, 
Flashed  through  the  gorgeous  vistas  of 

romance. 


TO . 

Beloved!  in  this  holy  hush  of  night. 
I    know  that   thou   art    looking  to  the 

South, 
Fair  face  and  cordial  brow  bathed  in  the 

light 
Of  tender   Heavens,  and  o'er  thy  deli- 
cate mouth 
A  dewy  gladness  from   thy  dark  eyes 

shed ; 
O  eloquent  eyes!   that  on  the   evening 

spread 
The  glory  of  a  radiant  world  of  dreams 
(The  inner  moonlight  of  the  soul  that 

dims 
This  moonlight  of  the  sense),  and  o'er 

thy  head, 
Thrown  back,  as  listening  to  a  voice  of 

hymns, 
Perchance   in   thine   own   spirit,   violet 

ffleams 


'  This  is  my  world  !     within  these  narrow  walls, 
1  own  a  princely  service." 


TO  W.  H.  H.  — LINES. 


31 


From  modest  flowers  that  deck  the 
window-bars, 

"While  the  winds  sigh,  and  sing  the  far- 
off  streams, 

And  a  faint  bliss  seems  dropping  from 
the  stars. 

O !  pour  thine  inmost  soul  upon  the  air 

And  trust  to  heaven  the  secrets  that 
recline 

In  the  sweet  nunnery  of  thy  virgin 
breast ; 

Speak  to  the  winds  that  wander  every- 
where, — 

And  sure  must  wander  hither  —  the 
divine 

Contentment,  and  the  infinite,  deep 
rest 

That  sway  thy  passionate  being,  and  lift 
high 

To  the  calm  realm  of  Love's  eternity, 

The  passive  ocean  of  thy  charmed 
thought ; 

And  tell  the  aerial  element  to  bear 

The  burden  of  thy  whispered  heart  to 
me, 

By  fairy  alchemy  of  distance  wrought 

To  sometbing  sacred  as  a  saintly  prayer, 

A  spell  to  set  my  nobler  nature  free. 


TO  W.  H.  H. 

How  like  a  mighty  picture,  tint  by  tint, 
This  marvellous  world  is  opening  to  thy 

view ! 
Wonders  of  earth  and  heaven;   shapes 

bright  and  new, 
Strength,  radiance,  beauty,  and  all  things 

that  hint 
Most  of  the  primal  glory,  and  the  print 
Of  angel  footsteps;   from  the  globe  of 

dew 
Tiny,  but  luminous,  to  the  encircling 

blue, 
Unbounded,   thou    drink' st    knowledge 

without  stint; 
Like  a  pure  blossom  nursed  by  genial 

winds, 
Thy  innocent  life,  expanding  day  by  day, 


Upsprings,  spontaneous,  to  the  perfect 
flower ; 

Lost  Eden-splendors  round  thy  path- 
way play, 

While  o'er  it  rise  and  burn  the  starry 
signs 

Which  herald  hope  and  joy  to  soids  of 
power. 

I  pray  the  angel  in  whose  hands  the  sum 

Of  mortal  fates  in  mystic  darkness  lies, 

That  to  the  soul  which  fills  these  deep- 
ening eyes, 

Sun-crowned  and  clear,  the  spirit  of 
Song  may  come ; 

That  strong-winged  fancies,  with  melo- 
dious hum 

Of  plumed  vans,  may  touch  to  sweet  sur- 
prise 

His  poet  nature,  born  to  glow  and  rise, 

And  thrill  to  worship  though  the  world 
be  dumb ; 

That  love,  and  will,  and  genius,  all  may 
blend 

To  make  his  soul  a  guiding  star  of  time, 

True  to  the  purest  thought,  the  noblest 
end, 

Full  of  all  richness,  gentle,  wise,  com- 
plete, 

In  whose  still  heights  and  most  ethereal 
clime, 

Beauty,  and  faith,  and  plastic  passion 
meet. 


LINES. 


Ye  cannot  add  by  any  pile  ye  raise, 
One  jot    or    tittle    to    the  statesman's 

fame; 
That  the  world  knows;  to  the  far  future 

days 
Belongs  his  glory,  and  its  radiant  flame 
Will  burn,  when  ye  are  dead,  decayed, 

forgot ; 
Therefore,  your  opposition  matters  not; 
The  thin-masked   jealousies  of   present 

time, 
Unburied  in  his  grave,  survive  to  keep 


32 


SONNETS. 


Rampant  the  hate  he  deemed  his  highest 

praise, 
And  the  rude  clash  of  discord  o'er  his 

sleep ; 
But  for  his  great,  wise  acts,  his  faith 

sublime, 
All  that  the  soul  of  genius  sanctifies, 
These  mount  where  viler  passions  cannot 

climb, 
These  live  where  palsied  malice  faints 

and  dies. 

Still  must  the  common  voice  denounce 

the  deed, 
The  common  heart  swell  with  an  out- 
raged pride, 
That  the  poor  purchase  of  that  paltry 

meed 
His  country  owed  him  should  be  thus 

denied ; 
.Shame  on  the  Senate!  shame  on  every 

hand 
"Which    did   not   falter   when   recording 

there. 
The  basest  act  achieved  for  many  a  year, 
To  fire  the  scorn  of  the  whole  Southern 

land ; 
Nor  the  South  only,  for  our  foes  will  cry 
Out  on  your  petty  pasteboard  chivalry ! 
The   people   who   refuse  to   crown   the 

great 
And  good   with  honor,   do  themselves 

eclipse, 
And  doubly  shameless  is  the  recreant 

State, 
Whose  condemnation  comes   from   her 

own  lips. 


"AN  IDLE   POET  DnEAMIS^G." 

Ax  idle  poet,  dreaming  in  the  sun, 
One   given    to    much    unhallowed    va- 
grancy 
Of   thought    and   step;    who,  when   he 
comes  to  die. 


In  the  broad  world  can  point  to  nothing 

done; 
Xo   chartered   corporations,    no    streets 

paved 
With  very  princely  stone-work,  no  vast 

tile 
Of  warehouses,  no  slowly-hoarded  pile 
Of  priceless  treasure,  no  proud  sceptre 

waved 
O'er  potent  realms  of  stock,  no  magic 

art 
Lavished  on  curious  gins,  or  works  of 

steam ; 
Only   a    few  wild   songs   that  melt  the 

heart. 
Only  the  glow  of  some  unearthly  dream, 
Embodied  and  immortal ;  what  are  these  ? 
Sneers  the    sage   world;   chaff,    smoke, 

vain  phantasies! 

Yet  stock  depreciates,  even  banks  decay, 
Merchant  and  architect  are  lowly  laid 
In  purple  palls,  and  the  shrewd  lords  of 

trade 
Lament,  for   they  were  wiser   in   their 

day 
Than  the  clear  sons  of  light :  but  prithee, 

how 
Doth  stand  the  matter,  when  the  years 

have  fled ; 
What  means  yon   concourse   thronging 

where  the  dead 
Old  singer  sleeps;  say!  do  they  seek  him 

now  ? 
Xow  that  his  dusi  is  scattered  on  the 

breath 
Of  every  wind  that  blows;  what  meaneth 

this  '? 
It    means,   thou    sapient    citizen,    that 

death 
Heralds  the  bard's  true  life,  as  with  a 

kiss, 
Wakens  two  immortalities ;  then  bow 
To  the  world's  scorn,  O  poet,  with  calm 

brow. 


DRAMATIC    SKETCHES. 


DRAMATIC     SKETCHES. 


ANTONIO   MELIDORI. 

[Amoxg  the  heroes  of  the  modern  Greek  revolution,  none,  perhaps,  were  so  distinguished  for 
acts  of  individual  daring,  and  a  spirit  of  romantic  and  chivalrous  adventure,  as  Captain  Antonio 
Melidori,  a  native  of  Candia.  He  waged  against  the  Turks  a  partisan  conflict,  which  was 
often  eminently  successful.  His  own  deeds  of  strength,  and  reckless  hardihood,  made  him 
terrible  to  the  foe,  who  were  persuaded  finally  to  look  upon  him  as  one  whose  life  was 
"  charmed." 

It  did  not  prove  so,  however,  as  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  rage  and  jealousy  of  some  of  his 
own  company.  Having  been  invited  by  the  malcontents  to  a  feast,  Kousso  (the  chief  of  the 
conspirators,  whom  Antonio  appears  to  have  rivalled  successfully  both  in  love  and  war), 
whilst  in  the  very  act  of  embracing  the  patriot,  plunged  a  dagger  into  his  bosom. 

There  is  atradition  that  Antonio  loved  a  beautiful  maiden,  Philota,  wbom  in  the  stirring  and 
anxious  scenes  of  the  revolution  he  was  ultimately  led  to  neglect,  if  not  to  forsake.  A  writer 
in  "  Chambers'  Journal "  has  from  this  episode  in  the  private  career  of  the  Greek  partisan  taken 
the  material  for  a  touching  and  graphic  narrative,  which  has  been  closely,  often  literally 
followed  in  the  composition  of   the  ensuing  "sketch."] 


SCEXE  I. 
[A  place  not  far  from  the  summit  of  Mount 
Psiloriti,  in  the  Isle  of  Candia.  Philota  dis- 
covered with  a  basket  of  grapes  upon  her  head; 
she  looks  eagerly  upward.  Time,  a  little  before 
sunset.] 

PHILOTA. 

Why  comes  he  not  ?   Here  on  this  emer- 
ald sward. 
Close  to  the  cool  shade  of  these  ancient 

rocks, 
We  have  met,  and  fondly  lingered  in  the 

sunset, 
Eve  after  eve,  since  first  he  said,  "  I  love 

thee!" 
Never,  Antonio,  hast  thou  heen  ere  now 
A  loiterer!  wherefore  should  my  heart 

beat  fast. 
And  my  breath  thicken,  and  the  dew  of 

fear 
Stand  chill  upon  my  forehead  ?    Is't  an 

omen  ? 

[At  this  moment  Antonio  is  seen  bounding 
quickly  down  the  mountain;  he  reaches  Philota 
and  embraces  her.] 


AXTOXIO. 
Thou  hast  waited  long,  Philota,  hast  thou 
not  ? 

PHILOTA. 

'Tis  true,  Antonio!  but  thou  know'st  an 

hour, 
Nay,  a  bare  minute,  drags  the  weariest 

length 
When  thou  ail  from  me ! 
ANTONIO. 
Thanks,  dearest,  and,  forgive  me, 
I  did  but  dream  upon  the  hill-top  yonder 
And,  dreaming  thus,  forgot  thee. 

PHILOTA. 

Forgot  me ! 

AXTOXIO. 

Nay,  nay,  I  mean  not  that !  thy  face,  thy 

smiles, 
Thy  deep  devotion,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
I  keep  them   shrined   forever,  but  my 

thoughts 
Turned     truant;    who     can     hold    his 

thoughts,  Philota, 
In  a  leash  always  ?    prithee  reascend 


36 


DBA  MA  TIG  SEE  TCHES. 


The  mountain  with  me,  1  would  show 

the  place 
Which  tempted   my  weak  thoughts  to 

wander  thus. 

[They  reach  the  most  elevated  portion  of  the 
mountain,  whence  a  wide  circuit  of  land  and 
sea  becomes  visible.] 

PHILOTA. 

How  beautiful!   how  glorious!  see.  my 

love. 
There's  not  a  cloud,  or  shadow  of  cloud 

in  heaven ; 
Even   here,  the  winds   breathe   faintly. 

and  afar 
O'er  the  broad   circuit    of    the   watery 

calm, 
Peace  broods  upon  the  ocean,  rules  the 

air. 
And  up  the  sunset's  dazzling  pathway 

walks 
Like  a  saint  entering  Paradise. 

'Twere  sweet, 
How  sweet.  Antonio,  amid  scenes  like 

these. 
To  live  and  love  forever! 

antoxio  [absently]. 

Dost  thou  think  so  '? 
Ay!  —  well  —  perhap 

PHILOTA. 

He  heeds  me  not.  his  eye 
Is  cold  and  stem:  what  troubles  thee, 
Antonio  '? 

ANTONIO. 

Trouble!     I  am  not  troubled. 

PHILOTA. 

But  thou  art. 
I  know  thou  art:  would'st  thou  deceive 
Philota  ? 

ANTONIO. 

Now  by  the  saints,  not  so;  dismiss  the 

fear 
"Which,  like  a  tremulous  shadow,  breaks 

the  calm 
Of  those  soft  eyes!     [after  a  pause] 

The  matter,  in  brief,  is  this : 
Tracking  our  mountain  paths  at  early 

dawn, 
Pvousso  —  thou  knowest  him  —  hailed  me 

from  the  rocks, 


With  words  that  sounded  like  the  battle 

trumpets; 
'"It  comes!"  he  cried;  ''the  war-cloud 

rolls  this  way; 
We  too  shall  hear  its  thunders" 

PHILOTA. 

Ay!  and  feel 
Its  bolts  perchance.  —  there's  lightning 
in  such  clouds ! 

ANTONIO. 

What  if  there1  be!  who  would  not  brave 

them  all, — 
All,  for  a  cause  like  ours'?     Believe  me, 

Love, 
We  stand  upon  the  brink  of  troublous 

times: 
All  shall  be  changed  here:  men. — brave 

Grecian  men.  — 
The  blood  of  heroes  in  them,  —cannot 

pause. 
Storing  the  honey,  harvesting  the  olive, 
Or  humbly  following  the   tame   herds- 
man's trade. 
Whilst  Freedom  calls  to  conflict. 

Look.  Philota! 
Dost  mark  yon  lurid  flash  across  the  bay? 
Our  soldiers   test   their   cannon!   hark, 

below*. 
The   drums  of    Affendouli  —  how   they 

ring! 
Already  thousands  of  bold  mountaineers 
Have  formed  beneath  his  banners;  dost 

thou  hear  me'? 

PHILOTA. 

And  wouldst   thou  wish  to  join  them? 

Ah !  I  see, 
I  see  it  all !  —  a  trouble  on  thy  brow. 
Borne  upward  from  the  restless  gloom 

within, 
Hath   clouded   o'er  thy  peace.      I.  —  a 

frail  girl. 
And  gifted  only  with  the  wealth  of  love, 
How  can  I  satisfy  the  burning  need 
Of  a  strong  man's  ambition?  Yes,  tis  so, 
'Tis    even    so!  —  love    is    the   woman's 

heaven. 
Her  hope,  her  god.  her  life-blood!  yet 

to  man. 
What  is  it  but  a  pastime? 


ANTONIO  MELIDORL 


37 


MTOMO. 

Speak  not  thus 
Oh,   speak  not  thus,  Philota!    I  have 

loved 
Thee,   only  thee,  —  so  help  me,  Virgin 

Mother ! 
But  comrades  from  whose  lips  a  taunt  is 

bitter, 
Have  dared  to  hint 

PHILOTA. 

What! 

ANTONIO. 

That  I  chose  to  stay, 

Delving,  like  some  base  slave,  our  bar- 
ren soil, 

When  not  a  Sphakiote  that  can  carry 
arms 

Has  failed  to  seize  them.  Liars !  pesti- 
lent liars, 

I  would  have  proved  the  falsehood  were 
it  not 

PHILOTA. 

For  me — Philota!  —  well!  I  love  thee 
clearly, 

Deeply,  —  God  knows,  —  but  I  would 
have  this  love 

To  crown  thee  as  a  garland,  — not  as  a 
chain 

To  bind  and  fetter  —  thou  art  free,  An- 
tonio!— 

ANTONIO. 

But  hast  thou  thought  of  all  which  fol- 
lows this? 
Thou  shaft  be  left  alone,  no  bridal  feast 
Can  cheer  the  olive  harvest ! 

PHILOTA. 

I  have  thought, 
And  am  determined ;  —  thou  art  free, 
Antonio ! 

ANTONIO. 

Oh,   thanks,  thanks,   thanks!  —  lift  up 

thy  hopes,  Philota, 
Up  to  the  height  of  mine !  our  cause  is 

just, 
And  a  just  Fate  shall  guard  it;  where- 

soe'er 
Free  thought   finds  utterance,  and  the 

patriot-soul 


Thrills  at  the  deeds  of  heroes,  — we  may 
look 

For  a   "God   speed!"     The  prayers  of 
noble  men, 

Tbe  tears  of  women,  — the  whole  world's 
applause 

Do  wait  upon  us ! 

Methinks  I  see  the  end, 

A  free,   grand  Commonwealth  of   Gre- 
cian States, 

Built    upon    chartered    rights,  —  each 
sealed  with  blood ! 

PHILOTA. 

Enough!  enough!    Antonio,  thou  shalt 

go! 
Greece  is  thy  mistress,  now. 

SCENE   IT. 
[The  cottage  of  Philota,  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Psiloriti.     Philota  discovered  at  the  window, 
looking  out  upon  the  night,  which  is  bleak 
and  stormy.] 

PHILOTA. 

Hark!  how  those  lusty  trumpeters,  the 

winds, 
Urge   on   the    black    battalions  of    the 

clouds ; 
And   see!  the   swollen   rivulets  rushing 

down 
The  sides  of  Psiloriti !    Yesterday, 
'Neath  the  clear  calm  of  the  serenest 

morn 
Earth  ever  stole  from    Paradise,  they 

swept, 
Bright  curves  of  laughing  silver  in  the 

sunshine ; 
But    now,    an    overmastering    rush    of 

floods, 
They  thunder  to  the  heavens,  that  an- 
swer back 
From  the  wild  depths  of  gloom,  —  an 

awful  tempest! 

[Enter  Antonio  hastily.] 
ANTONIO. 

Where  is  the  priest,  Philota?  where  is 

Andreas? 
Was  he  not  here  to-night? 

PHILOTA. 

Ay!  but  left  some  half  hour  since! 


38 


BE  AM  A  TIC   SKETCHES. 


AJtfTONIO. 

"What  say  you? 
Oh,  the  poor  father!  —  then  'twas  him  I 

saw 
Pent  "twixt  the  mountain  torrents:  he  is 

lost! 
The  good  old  man!  —  and  yet,  not  so, 

not  so! 
Give  me  yon  oaken  staff,  —  and,  hold ;  a 

flask 
Of  the  best  vintage:  1*11  be  back  anon. 
And  the  dear  father  with  me:  — 

[Exit  Antonio.  PMlota  kneels  before  an  image 
of  the  Virgin,  and  prays  for  the  safety  of  her 
lover.  After  the  lapse  of  some  minutes,  enter 
Jiousso  stealthily,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  which 
partly  conceals  his  features.] 

rousso  [aside]. 

Faith!  a  pretty  picture! 

Xow,  were  I  what  fools  call  poetical, 

I'd   worship  her.  whilst  she  adores  the 

saint,  — 
A  lovelier  saint  herself,  and  nearer  truly 
To  the  just  standard  of  divinity 
Than  yonder  painted  image;  there's  the 

curve, 
The  old  Greek  curve,  in  the  voluptuous 

swell 
Of  those  full  lips;  the  passion  in  her  eyes 
Is  shadowed  off  to  melancholy  meaning, 
Only  to  waken  to  meridian  life, 
When  a  like  passion  touches  it  to  flame. 

piiilota  [praying]. 
Oh,  merciful  Mother!  save  him,  —  save 

Antonio! 

kousso  [aside]. 
Oh,   potent  Devil!   claim   him, — claim 

Antonio ! 
What!  shall  this  malapert  boy  dispute 

my  love? 

[Piiilota,    rising,    discovers    Jlousso,    towards 

whom  (mistaking  him  for  Antonio),  she  rushes, 
as  if  about  to  cast  herself  into  his  arms,  but 
discovering  her  error,  she  shrinks  back.} 
PIIILOTA. 

You  here ! 
BOUSSO  [advan cing } . 
I  crave  protection,  shelter,  —  may  I  stay? 

PHILOTA. 

At  a  safe  distance,  Sir! 


KOUSSO. 

Why,  what  means  this? 
I  looked  for  kindlier  welcome! 
PHILOTA. 

AVherefore,  Rousso? 

What  thou  hast  asked,  I  grant,  —  pro- 
tection, shelter; 

Durst  thou  claim  more  than  these? 
KOUSSO. 

1'  faith  thy  temper  is  most  strange  and 
wayward ! 

Because,  some  months  agone,  not  quite 
myself, 

I  ventured  at  the  harvest  of  the  olive, 

Upon  one  innocent  liberty 

PHILOTA. 

Xo  liberty, 
With  me.   at  least,   bold  man!  is  rated 
thus ! 

p.ousso. 

I  do  repeat,  that  I  was  not  myself; 
Blame  the  hot  wine  of   Cyprus;   spare 
your  slave!    [Kneeling.] 

PHILOTA. 

A  slave,  indeed !  — 

kousso.  [lota; 

But  one  who  stoops  to  conquer,  fair  Phi- 
If  I  have  knelt,  'tis  only  that  I  may 
Rise   thus,    and   clasp   thee!     Hold,    no 

foolish  cries, 
Xo   weak,    vain   struggling^!     Think' st 

thou  that  the  storm 
Pealing  adown   the   mountain's  rugged 

steeps 
Can  bear  these   feeble  wailings  to  thy 

friends? 
Come,  come,  Philota!  —  if  thou  could'st 

believe  it, 
I  am  the  very  worthiest  of  thy  vassals: 
List  for  an  instant,   while  1  paint  the 

beauty 
Of  a  far  Eden  waiting  for  the  light, 
The  sundawn  of  thine  eyes:  — 

Amid  the  waves 
Of  the  iEgean,  bosomed  in  the  calm 
Of  ever-during  summer,  sleeps  an  isle 
Whereon  the  ocean  ripples  into  music; 
Through  whose  luxuriant  wilderness  of 

blooms, 


AX  TON  10  ME  LIDO  RI. 


39 


The  soft  winds  sigh  their  breath  away  in 

dreams, 
Where  —  (the  deuce  take  me!    I  forget 

my  part )  — 
Where  —  where  —  where  —  i'    sooth,   a 

place 
To  live,  to  love,  to  die  in,  and  revisit 
From  the  sad  vale  of  shadows,  with  a 

touch 
Of  mortal  fondness,  overmastering  death : 
Wilt  thou   go   thither  with  me?    Nay, 

thou  must ! 

[As  Pousso  attempts  to  carry  Philota  from 
the  apartment,  she  recovers,  and,  by  a  sudden 
effort,  releases  herself  from  his  arms.] 

EOUSSO. 

Pardon,  Philota!  'tis  my  eager  love 
Which  thus  hath  urged  me  on;   thou 

tremblest !  what  ? 
I  would  not  make  thee  fear  me. 

PHILOTA. 

Fear!  fear! 
If  my  cheek  pales,  it  is  not  cowardice 
That  plays    the    tyrant    to    the   exiled 

blood ; 
If  my  frame  trembles,  there  are  other 

moods 
Than  that  thou  speak' st  of,  to  unstring 

its  firmness; 
Thy  presence  brings  no  terrors ;  dost  thou 

talk 
Of  fear  to  a  Greek  woman  ? 

EOUSSO. 

No !  no !  not  fear,  but  love ! 

PHILOTA. 

Man,  man !  I  pray  thee 

Blaspheme  not  thus!  what  canst  thou 
know  of  love  ? 

'Tis  true  thou  speak' st  it  boldly;  from 
thy  lips 

The  word  falls  with  a  rounded  fullness 
off. 

And  yet,  believe  me,  thou  hast  used  a 
phrase, 

(A  sacred  phrase,  and  wretchedly  pro- 
faned), 

Which,  were  thy  years  thrice  lengthened 
out  beyond 


The  general  limit  of  our  mortal  lives, 
And  thou  be  made  to  pass  through  all 

extremes 
Of  multiform  experience,  it  could  never 
Enter  thy  sordid  soul  to  comprehend ! 

ROUSSO. 
Bravely  delivered!  by  my  soul,  I  think 
We  both  make  good  declaimers !    Where 

did'st  learn 
That  pretty  speech.  Philota  ? 

PHILOTA. 

Wilt  thou  leave  me  ? 

EOUSSO. 

Pshaw!   thou  art   less   than   courteous. 

Leave  thee  ?  no ! 
I  will  not  leave  thee !    Hark  ye,  my  proud 

damsel, 
I  am  not  one  with  whom  'tis  safe  to 

trifle, 
Thou  knowest,  or  shalt  know  this;  so, 

mark  my  words, 
Long  have  I  wooed  thee  fairly,  would 

have  won  thee, 
Yea,  and  endowed  thee  with  both  wealth 

and  station; 
Twice  hast  thou  heard  my  proffer,  twice 

with  loathing 
Spurned  it,  and  me ;  I  shall  not  woo  thee 

thrice 
With  honeyed  words;  no,  'tis  the  strong 

arm  now. 
I  am  prepared  for  all ;  come  on ! 

[He  seizes  Philota  a  second  time,  but  enter  on 
the  instant  Antonio,  with  the  Monk  Andreas 
leaning  upon  him.] 

philota  [faintly]. 

Saved!  saved! 

AXTONIO. 

Ha,  Eousso,  I  have  heard  it  whispered 
oft 

Amongst  thy  watchful  brethren  in  this 
isle, 

That  underneath  that  smooth  and  flatter- 
ing front 

There  lurked  a  mine  of  blackest  villany ! 

Faith!  I  denied  it  once;  what  shall  I 
say 

When  next  the  public  voice  decries  you, 
sir? 


40 


DRAMATIC  SKETCHES. 


ROUSSO. 

A  jest!     I  do  assure  you  but  a  jest! 
This  cloak,  which  in  your  self-devoted 

flight 
To  rescue  the  dear  father,  Andreas 
(How   glad   I   am  to   see  his  saintship 

safe), 
You  dropped   some   furlongs   from  the 

mountain's  base, 
I  cast,  in  sportive  fashion,  on  my  person, 
And  deeming  that  Philota  would  rejoice 
To  hear  that  thou  had'st  so  far  braved 

the  force 
O'  th'  treacherous    elements,   I    called 

upon  her ; 
She  did  me  the  vast  honor  to  confound 
Your  humble  servant  with  Antonio, 
And  'ere  I  was  aware,  sprang  to  my 

arms, 
With  such  a  blinded  ecstasy  of  rapture, 
That  I  had  wellnigh  sunk  into  the  earth, 
From  the  mere  stress  of  native  modesty ! 
A  jest,  a  jest,  and  nothing  but  a  jest. 

ANTONIO. 

Such  jesting  may  be  dangerous,  —  be- 
ware ! 

SCENE   III. 

[A  year  is  supposed  to  have  elapsed.  The 
town  of  Sphakia  after  nightfall.  Enter  con- 
fusedly a  band  of  Sphakiote  soldiers,  with 
Rousso  amongst  them.  The  streets  are  crowded 
with  women,  many  of  whom  are  heard  lament- 
ing the  death  of  Antonio  Melidori.] 

rousso  [in  a  disguised  voice]. 
Why   will  ye   clamor  thus,   ye   foolish 

jades  ? 
Your  handsome  favorite,  your  renowned 

commander, 
Is  no  more  dead  than  I  am ! 

A  WOMAN. 

Say' st  thou  so  ? 
Where  then  is  Melidori  ? 

rousso  [still  disguising  his  voice]. 

Would' st  thou  learn  ? 
Women   of   Sphakia,   your  immaculate 

captain, 
He    for    whose   welfare,   upon    bended 
knees, 


Ye  nightly  pray  to  heaven,  whose  name 
your  infants 

Lisp  in  their  very  slumbers,  hath  be- 
trayed us ! 

Hold!  hear  me  out!  I  am  no  dubious 
witness ; 

Thrice,  whilst  the  battle  raged  along  our 
front, 

I  saw  the  traitor  creeping  like  a  dog 

Between  the  Turkish  outposts ! 

[Antonio  appears  in  the  rear,  with  a  child  in 
his  arms.] 

ANTONIO. 

It  is  false! 
Here  is  your  leader,  Sphakiotes;   what 

base  slanderer 
Dares  to  pronounce  me  traitor  ?    I  but 

paused 
To  save  this  weeping  innocent,  whose 

mother 
Fell  by  some  coward's  sword! 

ROUSSO. 

Ha,  Sphakiotes,  see, 
The  noble  Melidori  waxes  tender, 
Soft  as  a  woman!    he  must    love    the 

Moslem, 
Who  fosters  thus  their  offspring!  by  the 

saints 
A  lusty  brat !     He'll  thrive,  good  friends, 

believe  me, 
And  grow  betimes,  to  cut  our  infants' 

throats ! 

ANTONIO. 

Let  him  who  speaks  stand  forth ;  I  would 

confront 
My  bold  accuser.     What!  he  clings  to 

the  dark ! 
Fit  place  for  lies  and  liars! 

Friends,  I  scorn 
To  parley  with  this  viper;  there's  a  way, 
One  only   way,   to   deal   with    reptiles, 

crush  them. 
Thus,  thus,  and  thus, 
When  they  have  crawled  too  near  us; 
[Stamping  violently  upon  the  earth.] 

Till  then,  why  let  the  ugly  beasts  hiss 

on, 
And  spit  their  harmless  venom. 


ANTONIO   ME  LIT)  Oli  I. 


41 


[Turning  to  the  women.] 

Mothers,  wives, 

Maidens   of    Sphakia,   are    there    none 
amongst  ye 

Beady  to  take  this  poor  unfortunate  ? 

Just  for  my  sake,  fair  countrywomen, 
list, 

List  to  the  blessed  word :  —  "  The  merci- 
ful 

Shall  obtain  mercy!" 

ROUSSO. 

Heed  him  not,  I  say, 

But  seize  the  infidel  whelp,  and  let  him 
rock 

On  a  steel  bayonet !    What !  have  we  re- 
pelled 

The  invading  foe,  exterminated  wholly 

His  forces  and  his  empire,  that  we  dare 

Cherish  his  cubs  among  us  ?  —  and  for 
what  ? 

"  Just  for  his  sake,  fair  countrywomen, 
—  his, 

And  mercy's!  "     Who  showed  mercy  to 
our  children. 

When   the   Turk   ravaged   Scio  ?      The 
young  devil.  — 

Hear  how  he  shrieks!    ho!    send   him 
down  to  hell ! 

Down    to  his  father!    he's    a    grateful 
spirit. 

And  thankful  for  small  favors ! 

[The  crowd  begin  to  murmur,  and  move  threat- 
eningly towards  axtoxio.] 

AXTOXIO. 

Shame  upon  you! 
Though  the  poor  boy  were  fifty  times  a 

Moslem, 
I'll  rear  him  as  my  own;  he  shall  not 

perish ; 
Perchance,  who  knows,  when  I  have  died 

for  you, 
For  you,  and  Grecian  liberty,  this  babe, 
Beared  as  a  Greek,  may  yet  avenge  my 

death, 
As  none  of  you,   false  brethren,   dare 

avenge  it! 
Once    more   I    say,  —Mothers,    wives, 

maids  of  Sphakia, 


Is  there  not  one  amongst  ye  to  whose 

tendance 
I    may   commit    this    trembling    casta- 
way ? 

philota  [veiled]. 
Give  me  the  child.  — I'll  nurture  him 

with  love, 
And  gentlest  usage. 

axtoxio  [starting]. 

Heavens !  what  voice  is  that  ? 
You  here,  Philota  ?     I  had   hoped  you 

dwelt 
Safely   within   the    close    heart   of    the 

mountains! 

PHILOTA. 

The  mountains  are  not  safe. 

AXTOXIO. 

Why  then  did'st  thou 
Keep  such  strict  silence  ?     Answer  me, 

Philota, 
How   hast  thou  lived.      This  peasant's 

dress 

PHILOTA. 

Is  fittest 
For  me,  Antonio.  —  by  my  handiwork. 
And  daily  labor,  I  now  earn  my  bread,  — 
For  was  it   meet  an  unknown  peasant 

girl 
Should   claim,   as   her  betrothed,  great 

Melidori. 
Captain  of  Sphakia  ? 

AXTOXIO. 

O,  thou  generous  heart! 

But  stay,  —  the  rabble  must  not  catch 
our  words ; 

Take  thou  the  babe. — under  the  city- 
walls 

I'll  meet  thee  in  the  gloaming, 

SCEXE    IV. 

[A  place  under  the  city  walls.  — time,  an  hour 
after  sunset.] 

axtoxio,  [embracing  philota  con- 
strainedly]. 
How  kind  thou  art ! 

philota. 
I  but  obeyed  your  mandate ! 


42 


DRAMA  TIC    S  KE  TV  HE  8. 


ANTONIO. 

Nay,  why  so  cold  ?   my  troth  is  thine, 

Philota,  — 
Dost  thou  remember  ? 

PHILOTA. 

Would' st  thou  have  me  do  so  ? 
Methought  that  dream  was  over,  —  by 
thy  wish. 

ANTONIO. 

By  heaven !  I  never  said  so ! 

PHILOTA. 

Yet  thy  heart, 
Thy  heart,  Antonio,  spake  the  keen  de- 
sire, 
Although  thy  lips  kept  silence;  —  I  have 

learned 
To  read  thy  spirit  like  an  open  book, 
And  cannot  be  deceived ;  —  all's  changed 

with  us; 
Never  again,  as  in  tbe  time  tliat's  past, 
Shall  we,  hand  linked  in  hand,  explore 

the  vales, 
Or  walk  the  shining  hill-tops;  thou  hast 

risen 
Far,  far  above  my  level;  a  great  man, 
Among  the  greatest,  —  thou  wert  mad 

t'  espouse 
A  humble  girl  like  me;  I  ask  it  not; 
My  love  but  burdens  thy  aspiring  hopes, 
.So,  I  beseech  thee,  dwell  no  more  upon 

it: 
Antonio,  for  thy  welfare  I  would  give 
My  soul's  life;   shall  I   then  refuse  to 

yield 
A  personal  joy,  that  thou  may'st  win 

and  wed 
The  immortal  virgin — Glory?    Dream 

it  not! 
Oh !  dream  it  not ! 

ANTONIO. 

Now,  gracious  God,  forgive  me ! 

It  were  presumption,  should  I  kiss  thy 
feet, 

Thou  pure,  unselfish  woman !  yet  thy 
words 

Are  true,  too  true,  and  I  dare  not  gain- 
say them. 

One  thing  believe,  Philota,  I  am 
wretched, 


Yes,  far  more  so  than  thou  art  : 
[After  a  pause.] 

—  Did'  st  thou  know 

The  terrible  life  I  lead  in  this  dread  war- 
fare, 

Through  what  an  atmosphere  of  blood 
and  carnage 

It  is  my  doom  to  move,  as  through  the 
air 

Of  some  plague-stricken  city,  thick  with 
curses ; 

Did'st  know  the  numberless  dangers, 
that  like  demons 

(Many  unseen, — and  therefore  doubly 
fearful), 

Which  hover  'round  the  soldier,  hour  by 
hour 

O'ershadowing  life  with  the  black  gloom 
of  death; 

Did'st  know  the  coarse  companions,  the 
rude  manners 

Of  vile  extortioners,  bent  alone  on  prey, 

And  personal  profit,  and  the  thousand 
evils 

Gendered  of  strife,  and  strife's  unhal- 
lowed passions, 

O,  thou  would' st  shrink  from  following 
such  base  courses, 

Even  as  an  angel  from  the  brink  of  hell ! 

PHILOTA. 

Thou  wrong' st  my  love,  and  hast  de- 
ceived thyself; 

Where'er  thou  art,  to  me  that  place  is 
heaven ; 

Antonio,  God  alone,  God  and  my  soul 

Know  what  I  might,  and  would  have 
been  to  thee ! 

I  would  have  shared  thy  fortunes,  joined 
my  fate 

For  weal  or  woe,  for  honor  or  disgrace, 

For  life  or  death  to  thine;  have  tracked 
thy  steps, 

(If  need  it  were,)  through  seas  of  blood 
and  carnage, 

Strengthened  thy  weakness,  buoyed  thy 
sinking  hopes, 

Nor,  at  the  worst,  have  shed  one  wo- 
man's tear 


ANTONIO  MELIDOBL 


43 


To   shake  thy  manhood.     Had  heaven 

blessed  thy  cause, 
I  would  have  striven  to  make  my  spirit 

worthy 
To  mount  with  thee;  so,  when  the  orbed 

glory 
Shone  like  the  fire  of  sunrise  round  thy 

brow, 
Xo  man  dare  say  that  with  that  lustre 

mingled 
One  blush  of  shame  for  Melidori's  wife! 
This  might  have   been,   and   this   shall 

never  be.  |  Wildly.] 

V  tli*   name  of  mercy,  by  thy  mother's 

soul. 
And  the  dear  past,  I  pray  thee  leave  me 

now, 
While   still   thou  lov'st   me  (dost  thou 

not  ?)  a  little. 

ANTONIO. 

And  thou  —  and  thou,  Philota? 

PHILOTA. 

I  shall  dwell 
In  peace;  [aside]  ay!  broken  hearts  are 
peaceful ! 

AXTOXIO. 

But  where  ? 

PHILOTA. 

What   matter  where,  so   that   I   live  in 

peace  ? 
Grieve   not,  Antonio.      In  my  humble 

station 
One  thought  shall  bring  content;  —  "he 

was  not  false," 
No  mortal  maiden  stole  Antonio's  heart ! 
ANTONIO. 

Blessed  words ! 
'Tis  true  I  love  but  thee! 

PHILOTA. 

Then  do  not  sorrow. 
Love,  I  forgive  thee ;  thou  hast  wronged 

me  not. 
And  for  the  child  —  ah,  I  shall  dream  it 

thine; 
Tend  it  as  thine,  and  when  the  years 

have  ripened 
That  infant  soul,   'tis  mine  to  lead  to 

virtue, 
I'll  teach  the  boy  how  noble  was  the  act 


Whereby   Antonio   saved   him;    1  11   be 

happy, 
Oh,    trust    me,    Love!    so    very,    very 

happy ! 

AXTOXIO. 

Then  be  it  so,  Philota.     1  would  bless 

thee. 
But  am  not  worthy;  still,  thou  shalt  be 

blessed. 

PHILOTA. 

And  thou,  too,  if  the  Virgin  hear  my 

prayers ; 
And  now  that  we  are  friends,  but  friends, 

though  firm  ones, 
Beseech  thee,  list  my  tidings.     There's 

a  foe, 
A  deadly,  treacherous  foe  in  thine  own 

camp. 
And  one  who  vows  thy  ruin ;  it  is  Rousso ; 
Thou  knowest  how  first  his  envious,  bit- 
ter temper 
Was  stung  to  hatred;  since  that  time, 

thy  will 
Hath   often   clashed  with  his;   besides, 

thy  fame 
In  these  fierce  wars  hath  far  o'ertopped 

his  credit; 
So   he  has  sworn  thy  death ;  the  voice 

was  his. 
That  goaded  on  thy  soldiers  to  rebellion; 
And,  as  I  threaded  my  uncertain  path- 
way, 
A  short   hour  since,   through  the  dark 

streets  of  Sphakia, 
I  heard  thy  name  in  whispers;  two  dim 

forms 
(Men,  as  I  knew  by  their  hoarse  tones.) 

conferred 
With  hurried,  stealthy  gestures,  and  one 

sentence 
Startled  me  like  a  knell:  —  "His  tomb 

is  open," 
A  deep  voice  said  ;  "Antonio's  tomb  is 

open!" 
Oh,   then,   beware.     As   lowly  as  thou 

deem'st  me. 
I'll  watch  above  thy  safety ;  the  soft  dove 
May   warn   the   eagle   of   the   midnight 

spoiler! 


44 


DBA  MA  1  '1 0  SKE 1  CUES. 


AXTOXIO. 

And  thy  own  life  and  safety 

PHILOTA. 

I  am  here 
To  spend  them  both  for  thee.     But  hark ! 

thy  name 
Is  shouted  by  thy  comrades  in  the  valley. 
The  hour  has  come  that  parts  us.     Fare 
thee  well! 

[She  gives  him  her  hand.] 
AXTOXIO. 

'Twas  not  our  wont  to  part  in  this  cold 

fashion ; 
Come,  one  more  kiss,  Philota !  let  me  feel 
We  were  indeed  betrothed ;  one  last,  last 

kiss !  [They  embrace  and  part.] 

SCENE   V. 
[An  apartment  in  the  house  of  Affendouli, 
the  Governor-General  of  Candia.    Enter  An- 
tonio, and  Affendouli,  conversing.] 

AFFEXDOULI. 

These  private  bickerings  are  the  fruitful 

cause 
Of  all  disgrace  and  failure;  let  us  end 

them ! 

AXTOXIO. 

Most   willingly!      I  have  no  feud  with 

any. 
Saving  one   quarrel,   forced    upon   me, 

chief! 

AFFEXDOULI. 

True,  true !  but  even  now  a  courier  waits, 

Charged  with  a  special  message  of  good 
will, 

From  Rousso.  and  his  brother,  Anag- 
nosti ; 

They  say,  "  We  plead  for  peace!  all  per- 
sonal hate 

Henceforth  be  quelled  between  us;  we 
would  join 

Our  troop  to  Melidori's,  and  our  banners 

Wave  side  by  side  with  his."  Accept 
their  proffer! 

AXTOXIO. 

I  will ! 

AFFEXDOULI. 

To  show  thou  art  sincere,  fail  not  to  test 
Their  hospitality. 


AXTOXIO. 

As  how  ? 

AFFEXDOULI. 

They  give 
A  solemn  feast  of  unity  and  friendship, 
To  which  thou  art  invited.     Go,  I  charge 
thee. 

AXTOXIO. 

Trust  me,  I  shall  be  there,  what  day's 

appointed 
Whereon  to  hold  this  festival  of  love  ? 

AFFEXDOULI. 

This  very  day ;  thou  knowest  the  camp 
of  Rousso  ? 

AXTOXIO. 

Ay!  I'll  be  there  anon ! 

[Exit  Antonio.      Enter,  after  a  brief  interval, 
Philota,  with  a  hurried  and  anxious  mien.] 

PHILOTA. 

Oh,  pardon,  pardon! 
Most  gracious  Governor !  but  I  come  to 

seek 
Ant Ant .  that  is,  the  Captain 

Melidori. 
With  tidings  of  grave  import. 


AFFEXDOULI. 


Ha! 


Thou  luckless   messenger!    he  has   de- 
parted. 

Gone 

philota  [wildly]. 
Where,  where  ? 

AFFEXDOULI. 

To  feast  with  Rousso. 
philota  [rushing  out]. 
Then  is  he  lost!     O  merciful  God,  pro- 
tect us ! 

scexe  VI. 

[An  open  space  in  a  wood,  —  tables  arranged 
for  a  banquet, —  Rousso,  Anagnosti,  Antonio 
Melidori,  and  their  followers,  discovered  feast- 
ing.] 

AXAGXOSTI. 

A  soldier's  life  forever!  free  to  pass 

In  feast  or  fray !  how  glorious  this  wild 

banquet 
Compared  to  those  dull,  formal  feasts  of 

old, 


ANTONIO  ME  LIBOR  I. 


45 


Held  at  the  olive  harvest!    Speak,  An- 
tonio. 

Give  us  thy  thought  upon  it :  what !  art 
silent  ? 

BOUSSO. 

Urge  him  no  more;  perchance  Antonio 
pines 

For  the  sweet  quiet  of  that  mountain 
life, 

Which  thou  hast  called  so  dull ;  its  days 
of  dream, 

Its  nights  of  warm  voluptuous  dalliance ! 

AXTOXIO. 

Xo,  no,  by  heaven !  those  times  are  dead 

to  me; 
They  had  their  pleasures,  but  not  one  to 

match 
The  keen  delights   of    glory,   the  true 

honor 
Which  follows  patriot  service. 

EOUSSO. 

Gallant  words, 
Brave,  and  high-sounding;  but  for  me 

and  mine, 
We  do  not  fight  for  shadows ! 

axtoxio  [coldly}. 

I'm  at  fault, 
Xot    clearly    comprehending,   sir,   your 

meaning. 

EOUSSO. 
Oh!  thou  dost  well  to  speak  of  glory, 

honors, 
We  know  what  rich  rewards  await  thee, 

chief, 
When  the  war's  ended ;  spoils,  and  wealth 

and  beauty. 
But    yestermorn,    I    saw  thy  winsome 

lady, 
The  bride  to  be?  old  Affendouli's  daugh- 
ter. 
Nay,  shrink  not,  man,  she  is  a  lovely 

maid, 
Fair  as  her  father's  generous;  what  an 

eye! 
Half  arch,  half  languishing;  and  what  a 

breast ! 
That  heaves  as  'twould  burst  outward  to 

the  day, 


And  strike    men    mad  with  its   white 

panting  passion! 
No  lovelier  woman  lives,  unless,  unless — 
It  be  that  poor  young  thing  who  doted 

on  thee, 
Before  the  war,  —  what  was  her  name  ? 

Philota  ? 

AXTOXIO. 

Thy  thoughts  run  on  fair  damsels ;  let 

us  talk 
Like  soldiers,  not  like  brain-sick  boys  in 

love. 

Korsso. 
With  all  my  heart;  only,  one  pledge  to 

thee, 
And  Affendouli's  daughter! 

AXTOXIO. 

I  have  borne 
This  jesting  with  the  patience  of  a  saint, 
But  now  'tis  stretched  to  license.  Prithee, 
cease ! 

EOUSSO. 

God,  how  he  winces!  if  Philota  — 


AXTOXIO. 


Utter  that  sacred  name  asrain- 


Villain ! 


eousso  [rising  suddenly  and  drawing 
his  dagger]. 

Oh.  ho! 
Wilt  fight,  wilt  fight !   I'm  ready  for  thee ; 
come. 

axtoxio  [aside]. 
(He  shall  not  trap  me  thus. )     Thou  art 

my  host ; 
'Twere  shame,  yea,  bitter  shame,   this 

brawl  should  end 
In  blows  and  bloodshed !  when  the  time 
befits, 

[To  Eousso]. 

Doubt  not  that  I  shall  call  thee  to  ac- 
count 

For  this  day's  work;  meanwhile  I  leave 
a  board 

Where  clownish  insult  poisons  all  your 
cups ! 

[As  he  is  about  to  depart,  Anar/nosti  approaches, 
with  an  air  of  00110111011011.] 


46 


DRAMATIC   SKETCHES. 


ANAGXOSTI. 

Well  spoken,   noble  captain,  thou  wert 

wronged ; 
But  Rousso  is  so  hasty !    He  repents ; 
Let  not  this  solemn  feast  of  unity 
Break  up  in  discord. 

ROUSSO. 

No,  no,  no,  Antonio! 
I  do  repent !  Prithee  embrace  me,  friend, 
In  sign  of  reconcilement. 

[  Rousso  approaches  Melldori  with  an  unsteady 
step:  while  in  the  act  of  embracing,  he  stabs 
him  in  the  side.  Philota  rushes  upon  the,  scene, 
with  a  cry  of  agony,  and  throws  herself  beside 
Antonio,  whose  head  she  supports.] 

PHILOTA. 

Too  late!   O  God,  too  late!    He  faints. 

he  dies ! 
Why  stare  ye  thus  upon  us,  cruel  men  ? 
Wine,  wine,  another  cup,  how  slow  ye 

move ! 
My  scarf    is  drenched  with  blood, — ye 

pitiless  fools ! 
Will  not  a  creature  loan  me  wherewithal 
To  bind  his  wretched  wound  up  ?    There, 

'tis  stanched. 
And  he  revives !    Antonio,  speak  to  me, 
I  am  Philota ! 

antonio  [his  mind  wandering]. 
Where   hast   thou  been,   my   love,  this 

weary  time  ? 
Am  I  not  true  ?    I  charge  thee,  heed 

them  not! 
The    girl   is  nothing   to  me;    Rousso's 

tongue, 
His  sharp  false  tongue  first  joined  our 

names  together ; 
She  loves  another,  and  I  love  but  thee ; 
Draw  nearer,  let  me  whisper.     I  have 

dreamed, 
Oh,   such  a  dream!   the  valleys  flowed 

with  blood, 
And  ruin  compassed  all  our  island  round, 
And  every  town  was  sacked,  and,  hark 

ye,  nearer! 
I  saw  a  mother  murdered  by  a  knave, 
A  coward  knave,  because  she  would  not 

yield 
Her  body  to  him;  but  I  saved  her  child, 


And  here  he  is,  a  pretty,  pretty  boy ! 
Take  him,  Philota.     Ah,  my  heart,  my 

heart ! 
It  pains   me    sorely;    'twas    a    terrible 

dream, 
But  now,  thank  Heaven,  'tis  over!  Thou 

art  pale ; 
What  makes  thee  pale  ?    Bear  up,  my 

dearest  love ! 
This  morn  we  shall  be  wedded,  and  I 

think 
We  will  not  part  again.     I  had  a  foe, 
His  name   is   Rousso;    but   we    are    so 

happy, 
Let  us  forgive  all  foes ;  invite  him  thither, 

philota  [weeping]. 
He  breaks  my  heart  — 

ANTONIO. 

How  keen  the  wind  is ! 

Keen,  keen,  and  chill;  it  was  not  wont 
to  blow 

So  coldly  at  this  season:  I  am  sick, 

Yea,  sick  of  very  joy;  but  joy  kills  not; 

My    lids    are    heavy  ;     I    would    sleep, 
Philota. 

Wake   me   at   early  dawn;    I   told    my 
mother, 

That  I  would  bring  thee  home,  to-mor- 
row morn. 

[He  dies.} 


ALLAN  HERBERT. 


SCENE  I. 


[The  hall  of  a  country  house  in  Westmore- 
land, surrounded  with  portraits  of  the  M.  .  .  . 
family.  Allan  Herbert,  and  Jocelyn,  an  old 
domestic,  are  seen  standing  before  the  likeness 
of  a  lady,  young,  and  wonlterfully  fair.] 

HERBERT. 

The  canvas  speaks ! 

JOCELYN. 

Ay,  sir,  'tis  very  like; 
Was  she  not  beautiful  ? 

HERBERT. 

Was ;  yes,  and  is ; 
She  had  not  lost  one  bloom  when  late  I 
saw  her. 


tifegil?5 


20 


''The  canvas  speaks." 


ALLAN  HERBERT. 


47 


Or.  if  I  have  [hesitating]^  it  lies  beyond 
our  reach. 


JOCEIiYN. 

Sir,  she  is  dead ! 

HERBERT. 

Ay,  so  they  say,  old  man ; 
And    yet    I    see    her  nightly, —in  my   |    What  meanest  thou  ? 

dreams ; 
I  tell  you  that  her  cheek  is  round  and 

fair 
As  summer's  fulness,  that  her  eyes  are 

lustrous, 


HERBERT. 


JOCELYX. 


I  mean  that  while  she  lay 
Decked  for  her  burial,  whilst  I  stood  be- 
side her, 


And  she,  a  perfect  presence  clasped  in       Looking  my  last  upon  her  tranquil  fea- 


light ! 


tures 


Thus    will    she    look,    on    resurrection       The  robe  of  death  was  fluttered  by  the 


morning. 

jocelyx  [aside]. 


wind. 


A  low  sad  wailing  wind,  that  swept  aside 

.,  ..tii  i       j       The  drapery  for  a  moment,  and  I  marked 

Alas,  poor  °-entleman!  how  many  loved       _,        ,.  „     ,  , ,     -, 

,  "  The   frmnmer    of    the    <?o  (1-e.dsre.d    nacres 


her, 

And  loved  her  vainly !    Pardon,  sir,  your 
name  ? 

HERBERT. 

Mv  name  is  Allan  Herbert. 


The  glimmer   of    the   gold-edged  pages 

placed 
Eight  on  her  bosom!    Master,  you  are 

pale. 
You  tremble ;  I  have  rudely  touched  the 

spring 
Of  some  deep-seated  sorrow ! 


JOCELYX. 

Herbert,  Herbert ! 

Where  have  I  heard  that  dainty  name 

before  ?  (musing) 

Oh,  now  I  have  it;  my  voung  mistress,       nn-ulT  "      i-i    ~  7     7 "    '    V"\ 

'       J   •         °  '        that  pass  like  clouds  or  shadows: 

sir, 

She  who  is  dead,  was  wont  to  read  a 

book 
A  delicate  gold-edged  volume,  that  I'm 

sure 
Bore   some   such   name  within  it;   she 

would  sit 


HERBERT. 

Yes,  old  man ; 

A  sorrow  most  unlike  to  common  griefs, 
pass  like  clouds  or  shadows;  mine 
is  mingled 

With  the  dark  hues  of  treachery  and  re- 
morse ; 

A  rayless,  blank  eclipse,  through  which 
I  wander. 

Accursed  and  hopeless ;  sometimes  in  a 
vision 


Beneath  von  grape  vine  trellis  toward  the   i    .-, 

°  Comes  the   sweet  face  of  her  I  foully 

south 


wronged. 
And  stabs  me  with  a  smile! 


(This  window,  sir,  commands  it),  and 

for  hours, 
Xay.  days,  bend  o'er  her  favorite  pages; 

once 
She  left  the  book  behind  her,  and  I  saw 
Its  leaves  were  touched  with  tears. 

HERBERT. 

Where  is  it  now  ? 
That  book  your  mistress   loved  ?     Let 
me  behold  it ! 

JOCELYX. 

In  sooth,  sir,  I  have  never  seen  it  since,       Moreover,  — if  you  wronged  her 


Did' st  wrong  her,  Sir  '? 
Did'st  wrong  my  lady  ? 

HERBERT. 

Lead  me  to  the  grave ; 
I  know  'tis  near  at  hand. 

JOCELYX. 

The  grave !  what  grave  '? 


48 


DBA  Mx  1  Tl  C   SEE  TO  HE  S. 


HERBERT. 

If  I  wronged  lier ! 
Why  dost  thou  taunt  me  with  it  ?  thou 

on  earth 
With  Mercy  still  beside  thee,  —  1  —  in 

Hell '? 


JOCELYX. 


Madman ! 


I    am   not  mad,   my   friend,   but    only 

wretched ; 
Once  more,  I  pray  thee,  show  me  where 

she  sleeps. 

JOCELYX. 

I  must  obey  him ;  this  way,  —  follow  me. 

SCENE     II. 

[A    forest.  —  Deep    in    the    shade   a    single 
monument  appears,  covered  with  wild-flowers 

and  roses.] 

HERBERT    [alone]. 

'Tis  fit  she  should  be  buried  in  this  place 
So  fragrant  and  so  peaceful;  O,  my  love! 
Thou  hast  grown  dull  of  hearing!  I  may 

call 
'Till   the   lone   echoes   shiver   with   thy 

name, 
Thou  wilt  not  heed  me:  dust,  dust,  dust 

indeed ! 
And     thou  —  more    glorious    than    the 

morning  star: 
More  tender  than  the  love-light  of  the 

eve! 
They  tell  me    thou    shalt    rise    again, 

Christ's  bride. 
Not  mine,  most  beautiful,  yet  changed; 
Perchance  I  shall  not  know  thee,  or  per- 
chance. 
The  human  love  which  made  thine  eyes 

like  heaven  — 
My  heaven  of  hope  and  worship  —  shall 

be  lost 
In     some     diviner     splendor  !     all      is 

hushed, 
No  smallest  whisper  trembles  gently  up 
From  the  deep  grave  to  soothe  me ;  'tis 

in  vain 


I  agonize  in  thought.     Eternal  Nature ! 
She   whom    I   once    called    "  mother,'' 

wears  an  aspect 
Callous  and  pitiless.     I  fain  would  solve 
This  terrible  mystery  that  weighs  down 

my  soul 
With  nightmare  fancies.     Let  me  die  in 

peace, 

0  God!  and  if  I  may  not  see  her  more 
Through  all  the  long  eternities,  nor  hear 
Her  voice  of  tender  pardon,  let  me  rest 
Next  to  some  stream  of  Lethe,  and  re- 
pose 

In  everlasting  slumbers! 

[Enter  Jocei.yx.] 
jocelyx. 

Come,  let  us  hence!  the  darkness  creeps 

upon  us; 
See,  Sir!  there's  not  a  spark  of  sunset 

left 
In  all  the  waning  West. 

HERBERT. 

Well,  what  of  that! 

1  live  in  darkness.  —  the  light  burns  my 

spirit. 
It  mocks  and   tortures  me!     Begone,   I 

say, 
And  leave  me  to  the  dismal  shade  thou 

fearest ! 

JOCELYX. 

Good  Sir,  be  counselled  — stay  not  in 

the  wood; 
Thine   eye  is  troubled,  and  thy  visage 

weary;  — 
'Tis  a  rash  venture! 

HERBERT. 

Sooth  to  say.  I  thank  thee-, 
Thou  could' st  not  serve  long  in  the  house- 
hold blessed 
By  her  most  merciful  presence,  and  not 

catch 
Some  tenderness  of  temper;  —  take  my 

thanks! 
Yet  will  I  stay  in  this  same  dreary  wood, 
And  watch  until  the  night  is  overpast. 

JOCELYX. 

Thou' It  find  it  lonely. 


THE    CONS  FIB  A  TOM. 


49 


HERBERT. 

Oh,  I  have  my  thoughts, 
A  stirring  company,  that  never  slumber. 

JOCELYN. 

Why,  worse  and  worse!   I've  heard,  such 
restless  thoughts 

Engender  a  sore  sickness 

HERBERT. 

Of  the  mind ; 

Yet  is  my  case  already  desperate, 

Past  healing,  and  past  comfort.    Go  thy 
way. 

Thou   kind   old    man,   thou    canst    not 
shake  my  purpose, 

But  when  the  last  star  wanes  before  the 
dawn, 

Come  back;  my  night  will  then  be  over- 
past, 

And  my  watch   ended;   till  that  hour, 
farewell ! 


FROM   THE   COXSPIRATOR, 

AN  UNPUBLISHED   TRAGEDY, 
SCENE. 

[A  garden  :  Arnold  De  Malpas  and  Catharine 
discovered  walking  slowly  towards  a  summer- 
house  in  the  distance]. 

CATHARINE. 

Art  thou  prepared  to  risk  all   this,  De 
Malpas '? 

DE  MALPAS. 

Ay!  this,  and  more,  if  I  but  thought  — 
[Hesitating]. 

CATHARINE. 

What,  Arnold? 

DE  MALPAS. 

If  I  but  thought  that  when  the  strife  was 

over, 
The    feeble    prince    hurled    down,    the 

throne  secured, 
She,  for  whose  love  I  braved  the  people's 

hate, 
Malice  of  rulers,   and  the  headsman's 

axe, 
Would   deign    to  share   with    me    that 

perilous  height. 


CATHARINE. 

She!    Oh,  thou  hast  a  lady-love! 

DE    MALPAS. 

Cruel!    Wouldst  thou  put  by  my  passion 

thus, 
With  a  feigned  jest  ?    Catharine,  I  stake 

my  all, 
Manhood's   strong  hopes  and   purpose, 

the  heart's  wealth, 
And   the   mind's    store   of   hard-bought 

lore,  my  peace 
Of  conscience,  and  my  soul's  immortal 

life. 
To  lift  thee  to  the  summit  of  thy  wish ; 
(Oh!  I  have  proved  thee,   and   1  know 

thy  thoughts), 
And  yet,  thou  f eignest  ignorance ! 

CATHARINE. 

Dear  De  Malpas, 
Forgive  me!   let  us  both  throw  by  the 

mask ! 
I  hate  the  queen;    even  in  our  girlish 

days, 
She  was  my  rival;    her  mild-mannered 

arts 
Stole  suitors  from  me;  the  old  priest,  our 

teacher, 
Though  I  eclipsed  her  ever  in  the  school, 
And   shamed   her  dullness  with   keen- 
witted words 
And  quicker  apprehension,  shone  on  her 
With  sunny  aspect,  sleeked  her  golden 

hair, 
Fondled  and  soothed  and  petted,  whilst 

for  me,   - 
The   apter  scholar,   he  reserved    harsh 

looks, 
And  harsher  tones;  (well,  the  old  fool  is 

dead ! 
In  after  time,  some  friend  of  holy  church, 
Some  zealous  friend,   proved    that  his 

saintship  taught 
Schism  and  heresy,  and  so — he  perished) ! 
But  for  this  queen,  this  Eleanor!   our 

souls 
Nursed  yearly  a  more  fixed  hostility; 
We  sat  together  at  the  knightly  jousts, 
And    watched    the    conflict  with    high 

beating  hearts, 


50 


DRAMA  TIG   SKETCHES. 


Flushed   cheeks,   and  fluttering  pulses; 

she  from  fear, 
I   with   the  mounting  heat  of   martial 

blood. 
Thrilled  with  the  music  of  the  battle's 

roar. 
The  ring  of  mighty  lances  on  steel  helms, 
Clangor  of  shields,  and  neighing  of  wild 

steeds : 
One  morn  my  knight  was  victor;  as  he 

placed 
The  crown  of  gems  and  laurel  on  my 

brow. 
Methought  that  I  was  born  to  be  a  queen, 
Xot  the  brief  ruler  of  a  festal  throng, 
But  'stablished  kingdoms,  and  a  host  of 

men 
Bound  to  my  sway  forever ! 

I)E  MALPAS. 

A  true  thought ! 
O,  noble  Catharine!  thy  aspiring  spirit 
Fires  my  purpose,  and   gives  wings  to 

action; 
Thy  rival  hath  sped   past   thee  in  the 

race, 
But  she  shall  fall  midway;  the  blinded 

monarch 
Walks  on  the  brink  of  an  abysmal  deep, 
And  soon  shall  topple  over;  then,  a  vic- 
tor, 
(Xot  from  the  conflict  with  half-blunted 

spears. 
In  friendly  tournament),  but  the  tumult 

tierce 
Of  revolution,  and  the  crash  of  states, 
Shall  set  a  weightier  crown  about  thy 

brows, 
And    hail    thee    ruler,  —  not   of    festal 

throngs, 
But  'stablished  kingdoms,  and  a  host  of 

men 
Bound  to  thy  swav  forever ! 


DE    MALPAS. 

Speak,  Bolton !  what  say  these,  my  faith- 
ful friends, 
Touching  my  present  life  ? 


BOLTON. 

Why,  Master  Arnold, 
I'  sooth  tbey're  much  divided;  some  as- 
sert, 
That  thou  art  moonstruck;  that  some 

morbid  fancy, 
Whether  of  love  or  pride,  hath  seized 

upon  thee ; 
Others,  that  thou  hast  simply  lost  thy 

trust 
In  man  and  in  thyself;  and  others  still. 
That  thou  hast  sunk  to  base,  inglorious 

ease, 
Urging  the  languid  currents  of  the  blood 
With  fiery  spurs  of  sense;  a  few  there 

are, 
Few,  but  most  faithful,  who  at  dead  of 

night 
]&i  secret  conclave,  with  low-whispered 

words 
And  pallid  faces  glancing  back  aghast. 
Speak    of    a   monstrous    wrong,   which 

thou 

DE    MALPAS. 
[Starling  up,  and  seizing  Bolton.] 
Unhappy  wretch!  therein  thou  speak'st 

thy  doom! 
That  prying,  curious  spirit  is  thy  fate. 

[Stabs  him  suddenly.] 
Did  I  not  warn  thee  of  it  '? 

BOLTON. 

Oh!  I  die! 
Yet  my  soul  swells  and  lightens;  all  the 

future 
Flashes  before  me  like  a  revelation. 
Arnold  Ue  Malpas !  thou  shalt  gain  thine 

end ! 
The  aged  king  shall  fall,  the  throne  be 

thine ! 
But,  as  thou   goest  to  claim  it,  as  thy 

foot 
Presses  the  royal  dais  (mark  my  words)! 
A  bolt  shall  fall  from  heaven,  sudden. 

swift, 
Even  as  thy  blow  on  me,  thou' It  writhe 

i"  the  dust, 
Down-trodden  by   the    hostile    heel    of 

thousands. 


EXPERIENCE  IN  POVERTY. 


51 


Whilst   she,   for   whom   thou'st  turned 
conspirator, 

Smiling,  shall  gaze  from  out  her  palace 
doors, 

And  wave  her  broidered  scarf,  and  join 
the  music 

Of   her  low   witching    laughter  to   the 
sneers 

Of  courtly  parasites;  "  De  Malpas  bore 

His    honors    bravely,   did   he    not.    my 
lords  ? 

Now,  by  our  lady,  ?tis  a  grievous  fall!  " 

"  Yet  pride,  thou  know'st,  sweet  Catha- 
rine,'"— 

"Ay,  ay,  ay! 

"  Prithee,  Francisco,  wilt  thou  dance  to- 
night ?  " 

DE    MALPAS. 

What,  fool !  wilt  prate  forever  ?    Hence, 

I  say. 

And  entertain  the  devil  with  thy  dream- 

ings ! 

[Stabs  him  again.] 


DE    MALPAS. 

Thou  hast  been  to  court,  Bernaldi,  hast 
thou  not  ? 

BERXALDI. 

Ay !  all  the  forenoon ! 

DE    MALPAS. 

Didst  thou  see  the  lady, 
Catharine  of  Savoy,   whose  miraculous 

beauty 
Hath  set  all  Spain  aflame  ? 

BERNALDI. 

I  did.  my  cousin. 
But,  I  am  bold  to  speak  it,  liked  her  not ; 
Her  beauty  is  the  beauty  of  the  serpent. 
Masking  a  poisonous  spirit;  there's  no 

depth 
Of    womanly   nature    in   her    gleaming 

eyes, 
Falsest  when  most  they  flatter ;  men  have 

said 
She  owns  the  Borgia's  blood;  I  know  not 

that, 
But,  by  St.  Mark !  she  owns  their  temper, 

cousin ! 


EXPEIUEXCE   IN  POVERTY. 

A.  How  bitterly  you  speak! 

B.  I  have  good  warrant. 

A.  Well,  for  my  part,  I  hold  your  creed 

is  false, 
Uncharitable,  monstrous!     I  have  seen 
The  world,  sir;  studied  men  and  man- 
ners in  it; 
And  though  no  doubt  some  selfishness 

and  craft 
May  evermore  be  found  by  those  who 

seek  them. 
Peering    too     closely     underneath    the 

mask 
Of  multiform  conventions,  yet,  by  heaven, 
The  world's    a    fair,    good,   reasonable 

world 
To  all  who  follow  reason!    Your  high 

fancies. 
Whose  goal  is  vague  impossibility. 
Of  course  must  miss  their  mark!     We 

live  not.  sir, 
In  Eden,  or  the  golden  age. 

B.  "   Bight!  right! 
You  talk  as  is  most  natural  in  one 

To  whom  all  life  hath  been  a  gay  parade, 

A  frolic  pastime !  —  to  whom  subtle  for- 
tune 

Hath  never  turned  her  dark  and  lowering 
front, 

But  round  whose  footsteps  sowed  with 
golden  showers 

Obsecpuous  knaves  and  sweet-tongued 
servitors 

Have  fawned  and  lied  and  flattered,  til' 
your  days 

Borne  bravely  onward  over  perfumed 
tides 

Passed  like  a  steady  bark  'twixt  shores  of 
flowers, 

You  know  the  world !  its  men  and  modes 
forsooth ! 

Wait,  sir,  until  your  purse  grows  lean  as 
mine, 

And  fate  within  the  compass  of  one  evil 

(A  gaunt  and  loathsome  poverty),  in- 
cludes 

All  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to !  disrespect 


b-1 


DRAMATIC   SKETCHES. 


From  insolent  curs  that  now  you'd 
hardly  stoop 

To  soil  your  lordly  boot  with!  studied 
coldness 

Of  ancient  friends  whose  easy  faith  de- 
clines 

With  your  decreasing  wine-butts!  covert 
sneers, 

Or  open  insult  from  the  gaudy  throng 

Of  parasites,  who  breathe  alone  in  sun- 
shine! 

Grief  without  balm,  and  pain  that  knows 
not  pity; 

Dark  days,  and  maddening  midnights, 
and  the  pang 

Of  outraged  feeling,  and  the  soul's  de- 
spair: 

Ay!  wait,  I  say,  until  from  depths  like 
these, 

The  lonely  thunder  growling  overhead, 

And  misery  like  a  cataract  raging  round 

Your  path  of  ruin,  wild  and  desperate 
eyes 

Are  lifted  to  the  summits  of  past  hope, 

Receding  ever  with  their  shows  of  joy, 

Less  real  than  the  mirage,  or  the  domes 

Which  sunset  builds  on  clouds  of  phan- 
tasy ! 

Wait  till  the  fiend  that's  born  of  famished 
hours 

Shall  grasp  your  hand  in  bony  fellow- 
-  ship. 

And  lead  you  through  the  mist  of  ghastly 
dreams, 

Helpless  and  tottering,  to  the  brink  of 
death ! 

Ha!  ha!  you  shrink!  the  picture  does 
not  please 

Your  dainty  fancy!    Well,  soft  optimist, 

Confess  there's  somewhat  you  have  still 
to  learn 

Of  this  same  fair,  good,  reasonable  world ! 


THE   TRUE   PHILOSOPHY. 

I'd  have  you  use  a  wise  philosophy, 
In  this,  as  in  all  matters,  whereupon 
Judgment  may  freely  act;  truth  ever  lies 


Between  extremes;  avoid  the  spend- 
thrift's folly 

As  you'd  avoid  the  road  of  utter  ruin; 

For  wealth,  or  at  the  least,  fair  compe- 
tence, 

Is  honor,  comfort,  hope,  and  self-respect; 

All,  in  a  word,  that  makes  our  human 
life 

Endurable,  if  not  happy:  scorn  the  cant 

Of  sentimental  Hives,  wrapped  in  pur- 
ple, 

Who  over  jewelled  wine-cups  and  rich 
fare, 

Affects  to  flout  his  gold,  and  prattles 
loosely 

Of  sweet  content  that's  found  in  poverty: 

As  for  the  miser,  he's  a  madman  simply, 

One  who  the  means  of  all  enjoyment 
holds, 

Yet  never  dares  enjoy:  no,  no,  Anselmo, 

Use  with  a  prudent,  but  still  liberal  hand 

That  store  the  gods  have  given  you ;  thus, 
my  friend, 

'Twixt  the  Chary bdis  of  a  churlish  mean- 
ness. 

And  the  swift  Scylla  of  improvident 
waste, 

You'll  steer  your  bark  o'er  smooth,  in- 
nocuous seas, 

And  reach  at  last  a  peaceful  anchorage. 


LOVE'S   CAPRICES. 

Come,    sweetheart,   hear  me!      I    have 

loved  thee  well, 
God  knoweth.     Through  all  these  years 

my  holiest  thoughts, 
Like  those  pure  doves  nurtured  in  an- 
tique temples, 
Have  fluttered  ever  round  thine  image 

fair. 
And  found   in   thee   their  shrine.     No 

tenderest  hope 
Of   mine,   which   hath  not  warmed  its 

radiant  wings 
Within  that  heaven,  thy  presence,  and 

drank  strength 
And  sunshine  from  it. 


LOVE'S    CAPRICES. 


53 


How  hast  thou  responded? 

Sometimes  thine  eyes,  like  Eden  gates 
unclosed, 

Would  pour  such  beams  of  sacred  pas- 
sion clown, 


That  all  my  sonl  was  flooded  with  its  joy, 
And  I,  methought,  breathed  as  immor- 
tals breathe, 
A   deathless   light    and    ether.      Then, 
when  most 


"  Come,  sweetheart,  hear  me  ! : 


I  dreamed  me  happy,  a  strange  change 

would  come, 
Sudden  as  strange;  some  wind  of  cold 

caprice, 
Blowing,I  knew  not  whence,  an  icy  cloud 
Upbore,  and  o'er  the  splendor  of  thy 

brow, 


Of  late  so  frankly  beautiful,  there  hung 
Ominous  shadows,  crossed  by  gleams  of 

scorn : 
Trifles  as  slight  as  eider-down  have  power 
To  move  or  sting  thee,  and  a  swarm  of 

humors, 
Gendered  of  morbid  fancy,  buzz  and  hiss 


54 


DBA  MA  1  '10   SEE  TCHE  S. 


About  some  vacant    chambers   of    thy 

mind, 
By    idle    thoughts    left    open,    making 

harsh, 
Rude  discord,  where,  if  healthful  will 

had  sway, 
Angels,  perchance,  might  lift  celestial 

voices ! 

Love,  love,  thou  wrong'st  thyself,  and 
that  sweet  nature, 

Sweet  at  the  core,  for  all  such  small  de- 
spites, 

Wherewith  kind  heaven  endowed  thee; 
yet,  beware! 

Caprice,  though  frail  its  shafts,  a  poi- 
soned barb 

Hath  bound  on  each;  their  points  are 
sharp  to  wound, 

And  the  wounds  rankle!  Giants  great 
as  Love 

Have  perished  merely  of  an  insect's 
venom, 

And  who  through  all  God' s  universe  can 
touch 

Love's  pulseless  heart  to  warmth  and 
life  again? 


CREEDS. 

Friend,  'mid  the  complex  and  unnum- 
bered creeds 
Which  meet  and  jostle  on  this  mortal 

scene, 
And    sometimes    fight    a   Voutrance,   I 

perceive 
Some  precious  seed  of  truth  ennobling  all  : 
Encased,  it  may  be,  like  the  mummy's 

wheat, 
Locked  in  dead  forms,  yet  waiting  but  a 

breath 
Of  honest  air,  an  inch  of  wholesome  soil, 
To    bloom    and    flourish    heavenward; 

therefore,  friend, 
Walk    hand    in    hand   with    clear-eyed 

Charity, 
And  Faith  sublime,  though  simple,  like 

a  child's, 


Who    feels    through  densest  midnight, 

next  his  own, 
The  loving  throb   of    a    kind    father's 

heart. 


THE    UNIVERSALITY  OF  GRIEF. 

I  GRANT  you  that  our  fate  is  terrible, 
Bitter  as  gall.     What  then?    Will  lam- 
entation, 
Childish  complaint,  everlasting  wailings. 
Grief,  groans,   despair,   help  to  amend 

our  doom? 
Glance  o'er  the  world  —  the  world  is  full 

of  pain 
Akin    to    ours.      If    some    dark    spirit 

touched 
Our    vision    to    miraculous     clearness, 

sights 
Would  meet  our  eyes,  at  which  the  cold- 
est heart 
Might  weep   blood-tears;  there's  not  a 

moment  passes 
Which  doth  not  bear  its  load  of  agonies 
Out  to  the  dim  Eternity  beyond ; 
The  primal  curse  of  earth,  with  heavier 

weight, 
Descends  on  special  victims ;  yet,  bethink 

you, 
All  sorrow  hath  its  bounds,  o'er  which 

there  stands 
That  friend   of    misery,   gentle-hearted 

Death. 
Balms   of    oblivion  holds  he,   and   the 

realm 
Wherein  he  rules  hath  murmurous  caves 

of  sleep. 


THE  PENITENT. 

Thou  see'st  yon  woman  with  the  grave 
pelisse 

Lined  with  dark  sables  ?  Is  she  not  de- 
vout ? 

Her  soul  is  in  the  service,  and  her  eyes 

Are  dim  with  weeping,  —  weeping  for 
the  follies 


REWARD    OF  FICKLENESS. 


55 


Of  a  misguided  youth;    thus  saith  the 

world, 
But  I,  who  know  her  ladyship,  know 

this : 
She  weeps  that  youth  itself,  and  the  lost 

triumphs 
Which  followed  in  its  train ;  the  scores 

of  lovers 
Dead  now,  or  married  off;  the  rout,  the 

joust, 
The  sweet  flirtatious,  merry  carnivals, 
And  —  (oh !  supremest  memory  of  all !)  — 
The  banded  serenaders  'neath  the  lattice, 
Lifting  the  voice  of  passion  in  the  night : 
And  one  among  the  minstrels  loved  her 

well. 
But  him  she  laughed  to  scorn,  his  heart 

was  riven; 
She  trampled  on  the  purest  pearl  of  love, 
And   cast  it   to  the  dogs;  well,  God  is 

just! 
She  scorned  his  sacred  gift,  and  so  must 

walk, 
Henceforth    a    lonely    woman    on    the 

earth ! 


DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT. 

We  might  have  been !  ah,  yes !  we  might 

have  been 
Among    the    laurelled     noblemen     of 

thought, 
Who  lift  their  species  with  them  as  they 

climb 
To  deathless   empire  in  the    realm  of 

gods ; 
But  some  dark  power  —  we  will  not  call 

it  Fate  — 
We  dare  not  call  it  Providence  —  hath 

seized 
The  helm  of  our  strange  destinies,  and 

steered 
Right  onward  to  the   breakers.     All  is 

lost! 
Hope's  siren  song  of  promise  faints  in 

sighs, 
And   joy  —  (but  she  ne'er  charmed  us, 

save  in  days 


Of  dim-remembered  childhood); — let  it 

pass ! 
Our  lot's  the  lot  of  millions;  for  on  life 
A  blight  is  preying,  and  a  mystic  wrong 
Hath  set  our  heartstrings  to  the  tune  of 

srief ! 


REWARD   OF  FICKLENESS. 
ALTON. 

You  see  that  man  with  the  quick  eyes 

and  brow, 
Too  ponderous   almost  for  his  slender 

frame, 
His  dark  locks  tinged  with  gray;  you'd 

hardly  think  it, 
But  he's  a  moral  dandy,  dilettante 
(As  your  Italians  say),  whose  fickle  taste 
Leads  him,  like  some  fastidious  bee,  from 

flower 
To  flower  of  social  pastime!    A  fair  girl, 
Pretty  and  pjquante,  fills  his  heart  to- 
day; 
On  airy  wings  of  sentiment  he  hovers 
Lovingly  round  her,  feeds  the  beauteous 

creature 
On  honeyed  nothings  in  a  tone  so  sweet, 
They  seem  the  genuine  fruit  of  a  strong 

soul 
Nurtured  by  passion,  and  true  adoration; 
Then  on  the  morrow  when  he  meets  once 

more 
"That  Cynthia  of  the  minute,"  a  cold 

crust 
Of  iciest  form  and  etiquette  o'erspreads 
His  words,  look,  bearing;  the  whole  man 

is  changed  — 
As  if   a  Tropic  landscape,  bright  with 

sunlight. 
Had   grown  to  frozen  hardness   in  an 

hour :  — 
A  demon,  fickle,  trifling,  and  capricious 
O'errules  his   spirit   always!  with  men 

likewise, 
It  is   his  pride  to  play  the  same  vile 


game 


Why,  sir,  your  patience  would  be  taxed 
to  count 


56 


DRAMA  TIC  SEE  TCHES. 


His  dupes  within  the  year!  he'll  take  a 
youth, 

Bright-minded,  trusting,  whom  per- 
chance he  meets 

In  casual  fashion  on  the  public  square. 

Caress,  solicit,  natter  him  —  at  length 

Bear  the  poor  fool,  elate  and  jubilant, 

To  banquet  at  his  own  well-ordered 
board, 

Ply  him  with  curious  questions,  draw 
him  out 

To  make  display  of  all  his  raciest  wit. 

And  when,  like  a  squeezed  orange,  all 
his  sap's 

Exhausted,  —  faith!  Sir  Dainty  down 
the  wind 

Whistles  his  victim  with  a  cool  assur- 
ance, 

Which  is  the  calm  sublime  of  impu- 
dence ! 

In  fine,  the  man's  a  worn-out  Epicurean, 

A  ceaseless  hunter  after  new  sensations, 

To  whom  the  world's  a  storehouse 
crammed  with  hearts 

And  minds  for  his  amusement!  as  for 
hearts. 

He'll  toss  'em  up,  as  jugglers  toss  their 
balls, 

Proud  of  his  sleight  of  hand,  his  impish 
cunning, 

His  matchless  turns  of  quick  dexterity ! 

And  if  the  baubles  break,  he's  sore 
amazed 

That  aught  should  be  so  brittle!  yet 
thanks  God 

The  earth  is  full  of  these  same  delicate 
toys; 

And  so  he  hurls  the  shattered  plaything 
by, 

To  re-assume  his  honest,  juggling  tricks. 

And  charm  his  weary  leisure-time  with 
lies; 

A  silken,  soft,  fair-spoken,  dangerous 
knave. 

MARCUS. 

Some  day  he'll  find  his  match! 

ALTON. 

Ay!  you  may  swear  to  that; 

Some  woman  versed  in  every  social  art, 


Some  rare,  majestic  creature,  whose  rich 
beauty 

Will  set  his  amorous  senses  in  a  blaze; 

Slowly  around  him  she  will  draw  the 
net 

Of  fascinations,  multiform  and  strange; 

Enchant  his  fancy  with  her  regal  wit. 

His  taste  with  every  charm  of  female 
guile, 

Inflame  him  with  voluptuous  blandish- 
ments. 

By  turns,  sooth,  flatter,  madden,  vow 
she  loves 

At  one  delicious  moment,  then  the  next 

As  warmly  swear  she  loathes  him!  by  a 
spell 

Invisible,  but  potent  as  the  sun, 

She'll  lead  him,  fawning,  quivering  to 
her  feet, 

And  at  the  last,  O !  consummation  just ! 

When  on  the  very  brink  of  blest  frui- 
tion, 

He  hovers,  arms  outstretched,  and  soul 
aglow, 

She'll  freeze  to  sudden  marble,  wave  him 
off 

With  such  calm  haughtiness  of  queenly 
scorn, 

Imperious,  crushing,  fatal,  that,  by  heav- 
en, 

I  should  not  wonder  if  the  terrible  sting 

Of  disappointment  and  deceived  desires, 

Of  baffled  passion,  wounded  self-conceit, 

And  hope  so  swiftly  murdered  by  de- 
spair. 

Struck  to  the  core  of  being,  and  this 
man 

Falser  than  hell  to  others,  perished 
wholly, 

By  his  own  pestilent  trickery  done  to 
death ! 


A   CHARACTER. 

A.     He  is  a  man  whose  complex  char- 
acter 
Few  can  decipher  rightly ;  but  for  me 
I  have  found  the  key  at  last ! 


A    CHARACTER. 


57 


B.  What  make  you  of  it  ? 

A.     As  mournful  and  as  blurred  a  page, 

perchance, 
As  ever  pained  the  seeker  after  truth : 
Listen!  this  man,   when  like  a  factory 

slave 
I  toiled   for  some  bald  pittance  in  the 

city. 
Came  to  me  (unsolicited,  remember), 
With  words  of  cheer,  and  honeyed  cour- 
tesies; 
His  tone  was  soft  as  dulcet  airs  of  May; 
His  heart  the  very  fount  of  sympathy! 
"  What,"  said  he,  "  shall  you  grind  your 

genius  here, 
Down  to  the  last  faint  edge;  waste  your 

rich  thoughts ' ' 
(Mark   you   the   subtle  flattery   of   this 

language), 
"  Upon    a    thankless,    ignorant,   brutal 

fool. 
Who  plays  the  patron  with  the  grace  of 

Bottom, 
His  ass's  head  from  out  your  flowering 

fancies 
Grinning  in  dull  and  idiot  self-applauses; 
By  every  gentle  muse  this  shall  not  be ! " 
Straightway,  with  hand  caressing  as  a 

woman's, 
He  led  me  from  hard  desk  and  stifling 

air, 
Forth  to  his  bowery  home  amid  the  hills, 
There  fed  me,  sir,  on  kindness,  day  by 

day, 
Until  this  starved  and  tortured  spirit 

grew 
Healthy  and  hale  again !  Xo  wish  had  I, 
He  did  not  hasten  blithely  to  forestall! 
He  called  me  "'brother,''  drew  from  shy 

reserves 
Of  knowledge,  feeling,  poesy,  full  stores 
Of  all  my  wealth  —  by  heart   or  brain 

amassed  — 
Ha!  by  Apollo!    what  rare  times  were 

those 
We  spent  in  'rapt  communion  with  the 

bards 
Each  worshipped,  and  what  jovial  laugh- 
ter shook 


The  flying  night-winds,  when  our  graver 

books 
Were  cast  aside,  and  he  an  artful  mimic, 
A  famed  raconteur,  many  a  humorous 

scene 
Enacted  with  such  raciness  of  wit 
Despair  itself  had  checked  its  tears  —  to 

smile; 
In    brief,   by   every  wile   a  man  could 

use 
To  knit  his  fellow's  heart-strings  to  his 

own, 
He  made   me   love  him !    other  friends 

were  gone 
Forlornly  mouldering  in  far  churchyard 

shades 
And  therefore  —  undivided,  ardent,  sure, 
Affection   centred    all    its   warmths   on 

him ! 

And  now,  when  wholly  his,  I  would  have 
dared 

For  him  all  danger  (you  will  scarce  be- 
lieve it), 

But  suddenly,  as  sometimes  on  calm 
seas, 

The  watcher  from  some  lonely  headland 
views 

A  gallant  bark  sink  swiftly  in  the  deep, 

Dissolving  like  a  vision  —  thus  his  friend- 
ship, 

Its  glittering  flags  of  promise  flaunting 
still 

The  tranquil  sunlight,  sunk  before  mine 
eyes 

And  left  me  gazing  like  a  man  distraught 

Across  the  mocking  solitude ! 

B.  What  more  ? 

A.  What  more  ?    Why,  truly,  sir,  the 

tale  is  done. 
'Twas  a  sharp  close,  I  grant  you,  to  a 

dream 
Which  rose  so  fairly;  yet  there's  comfort 

in't! 

B.  Comfort ! 
A.  Ay,  ay!  rare  comfort  in  the  thought 
That   tho'   my    years   should   reach  the 

utmost  verge 
Of  mortal  life,  I  shall  not  dream  again! 


58 


DRAMATIC  SKETCHES. 


But  pshaw!  push  on  the  bottle,  'tis  the 
last 

Of  a  full  bin  that  constant  friend  of 
mine. 

That  loyal,  noble,  pure  Samaritan, 

Gave  me,  with  vows  of  everduring  love, 

Three  months  ago  at  Christmas !  Stay, 
a  toast: 

"Fair  health,  long  life,  immortal  honor 
crown 

The  man  who's  constant  only  to  —  him- 
self!" 


MORALS   OF  DESPERATIOX. 

The  man  who's  wholly  ruined,  sir,  fears 
nothing; 

How  can  he  when  all's  lost  to  him  al- 
ready '? 

There  is  a  desperate  gayety  which  comes 

To  buoy  one  up  in  such  a  strait  as  this ; 

Under  whose  spell,  it  is  a  sort  of  witch- 
craft, 

Men  lose  all  sense  of  wrong,  or  rather 
take 

Wrong  for  their  right,  rejoicing  even  in 
crime. 

Faith,  now.  I'd  hardly  answer  for  my- 
self. 

If  in  some  garden  solitude,  like  this,  sir, 

At  the  hour  of  midnight  (hark!  the  deep 
church  tower 

Is  tolling  twelve),  haply  I  chanced  to 
meet 

A  pompous  millionaire,  a  man  who  stag- 
gers 

Under  his  golden  burden,  like  a  ship 

Feeling  'neath  too  much  canvass;  I 
should  ease 

My  laboring  comrade,  thus  and  thus,  of 
all 

His  glittering  superfluities:  this  ring 

Is  a  brave  diamond,  and  will  serve  me 
bravely; 

And  ha!  by  Pluto!  what  a  massive  chain 

Meanders  like  a  miniature  Pactolus 

Across  your  worship's  vest :  my  lord,  no 
wonder 


You  grow  asthmatic  with  a  weight  like 

that 
Pressed  on  your  gasping  lungs;  I'll  free 

you  from  it ; 
And  blessed  saints !  but  here's  a  fair-knit 

purse, 
And  fairly  filled,  too!    Shame  it  were  in 

sooth 
To  keep  this  gift  of  your  sweet   para- 
mour. 
Therefore,  behold  me!  I  pour  out  this 

coin; 
O  Jesu!  what  rich  music!  but  the  purse 
Duly  return  you!  haste,  your   worship, 

haste. 
Or  else  these  itching  palms  will  find  fresh 

work 
About  your  silken  doublet,  and  bright 

hose. 
Or  those  trussed  points  you  needs  must 

clasp  with  jewels; 
Ay.  haste,  and  take  you  comfort  in  the 

text 
Which  the  wise  Messer  Safvatore  Duoino 
Dins   in   our  ears  each  sacred  Sabbath 

morning, 
That  •"  blessed,  three  times  blessed,  are 

the  poor!" 


THE   (  OXDEMXED. 

As  in  those  lands  of  mighty  mountain 
heights, 

The  streams,  by  sudden  tempests  over- 
charged, 

Sweep  down  the  slopes,  bearing  swift 
ruin  with  them. 

So  I  and  all  my  fortunes  were  engulf  d 

In  sudden,  swift,  complete  destruction; 

The  morning  found  me  happy,  rich, 
contented, 

But  ere  the  sunset  that  black  ruin 
came. 

And  stared  me  in  the  face. 

Sir.  I  had  reach'd 
A  stage  of  middle  life,  when  chains  of 
habit 


THE    CONDEMNED. 


59 


Cannot     be     broken,     save     by     giant 

Broken,    amazed,     despondent.      What 

wrenches, 

had  I, 

When  to  be  rudely  hurled  from  life-long 

A  scholar,  recluse,  dreamer,  thou  may'st 

grooves 

say. 

Of    thought    and    progress,   leaves    the 

In  common  with  the  work-day  world  of 

staunchest  mind 

men  ? 

If         % 


%      I  * 


wm 


"Almighty  Nature,  the  first  law  of  God, 
Perforce  I  followed." 


Yet,  goaded  on  by  fierce  necessity, 

I  sought  work  in  the  crowded  haunts  of 

cities, 
Thinking  to  draw  on  knowledge   as  a 

bank, 
Exhaustless,  opulent,  whereby  all  needs, 
Not     born    of    random,   loose    extrava- 
gance, 


Would    be    assuredly    answered.       Ah! 

poor  fool : 
Too  soon  experience  clove  the  shining 

mist 
Of  hopeful  fantasy,  and  like  a  wind, 
Sullen  at  first  and  slow,  but  raised  ere 

long 
To  tempest-madness,  rent  the  veil  away 


60 


DRAMA  TIC   SKE  TCIIES. 


O'er    which    a     steel-blue    melancholy 

heaven 
Glared  on  me,  like  a  mocking  eye  in 

death : 
Then   came   by  turn   mistrust,  despon- 
dence, dread, 
And  last,  despair,  with  frenzy;  the  brute 

instincts, 
That  sleep  like  tigers,  jungled,   in  the 

blood, 
With  hale   or  pampered  bodies,  at  the 

sting 
Of  loathsome  famine,  woke,  and  raged 

and  tore, 
Till  Conscience,  whose  fair  seat  is  in  the 

soul, 
Till  Reason,   whose  deep  life   is  in  the 

brain, 
Lay  silent,  murdered.     A  mere  animal 

thing  — 
Hyena,     tiger,     wolf  —  whate'er     thou 

wilt  — 
I  seized   my  prey  and  rent  it.     What  to 

me 
The  complex  figments  of  your  juggling 

laws  ? 
Nature  with  countless  clamorous  tongues 

cried  out, 
"  Thou  hungerest,  diest;  snatch  thy  food 

from  fate, 
Though  'twixt  thee  and  the  life-sustain- 
ing bread 
A  hundred  sleek,  smooth,  sneering  ty- 
rants stand 
Laughing  to  scorn  thine  untold  agonies !" 
Almighty  Nature,  the  first  law  of  God, 
Perforce  I  followed;  the  false  codes  of 

man 
Perforce  I  broke.     And  so,  for  this,  for 

this, 
Man's  law  that  fain  would  run  a  tilt  at 

God, 
Its  puny  weapon  shivering  like  a  reed, 
'Gainst  the  great  bosses  of    Jehovah's 

buckler, 
Appoints  me  death.     Well,  well,  I  fear 

not  death, 
Trusting  that  death,  perchance,  is  but  a 

night 


Shorn  of  all  morrow,  a  long,  dreamless 

slumber, 
O'er  which  the  ages,  hoar  and  solemn 

nurses, 
Chant  their  majestic  lullabies,  that  hold 
Spells  of  oblivion ;  either  thus,  or  I, 
Whose  life-sun  rose  in  shadow,  sets  in 

blood, 
Shall  find  a  nobler  being  in  some  star 
Beyond  the  silvery  Pleiads. 

Friend,  thy  hand ; 

Alone  of  all  earth's  creatures  do  I  kne 
thee : 

Thee,  and  the  little  soft-eyed,  pensive 
child, 

Thy  fairy  daughter.  Strange !  but  when 
I  drink 

Light  from  the  founts  of  her  large,  seri- 
ous eyes, 

1  seem  to  near  a  trembling,  spiritual 
joy, 

To  thrill  upon  the  utmost  verge  and 
brink 

Of  mystic  revelations.  Prithee,  there- 
fore, 

Bring  the  fair  child  once  more;  I  yearn 
to  carry 

The  dream  of  her  sweet,  pitiful,  angel's 
face, 

To  cheer  the  realm  of  shadows.  Will 
she  come  ? 


ANTIPA  THIES. 

Love  is  no  product  of  the  obedient  will, 
It  hath  its  root  in  those  deep  sympa- 
thies, 
Mere  ties  of  blood  are  powerless  to  con- 
trol; 
I  love  thee  not  because  around  thy  heart 
An  Arctic  nature  hath  built  up  the  ice 
Of  thawless  winter:  vain  it  is  to  strive 
Against  the  law  of  just  antipathies: 
The  Tropic  sunlight  burns  not  at  the 

Poles, 
Nor  blooms  the  lustrous  foliage  of  the 
East 


MI  SCONS  TR  UGTION. 


61 


Among  the  rocky,  storm-bound  Hebrides ; 
To  all  my  gods  thou  art  antipodal, 
Therefore,  again,  good  sir !     1  love  thee 
not. 


MIS  CONS  Tit  UC  TI  ON. 

How  man  misjudges  man !   the  outward 

seeming, 
Gesture,  or  glance,  or  utterance  that  may 

iar 


Against  some  petty,  pampered,  poor  con- 
ceit, 

Unworthy,  undefined,  is  straightway 
made 

To  prove  a  vast  obliquity  of  soul, 

And  shallow  disputants,  with  ponderous 
show 

Of  judgment  that  provokes  the  wise  to 
scorn, 

Exhort  the  virtuous  by  the  foul  abuse 

Which  damns  them  to  the  level  of  their 
speech. 


POEMS    OF    THE    WAR. 


POEMS    OF    THE    WAR. 

1861-1865. 


These  poems  are  republished  with  no  ill-feeling,  nor  with  the  desire  to  revive  old  issues ; 
but  only  as  a  record  and  a  sacred  duty :  — 

"Fidel is  ad  urnam.'" 


M T  MOTHER-LAND. 
"  Animis  Opibusque  Parati." 

My  Mother-land !  thou  wert  the  first  to 

fling 
Thy  virgin  flag  of  freedom  to  the  breeze, 
The  first  to  front  along  thy  neighboring 

seas, 
The  imperious  foeman's  power; 
But  long  before  that  hour, 
While  yet,  in  false  and  vain  imagining, 
Thy  sister  nations  would  not  own  their 

foe, 
And  turned  to  jest  thy  warnings,  though 

the  low, 
Portentous  mutterings,  that  precede  the 

throe 
Of  earthquakes,  burdened  all  the  omin- 
ous air; 
While  yet  they  paused  in  scorn, 
Of  fatal  madness  born, 
Thou,  oh,  my  mother!  like  a  priestess 

bless' d 
With  wondrous  vision  of  the  things  to 

come, 
Thou  couldst  not  calmly  rest 
Secure  and  dumb  — 
But  from  thy  borders,  with  the  sounds  of 

drum 
And  trumpet  rose  the  warrior-call, — 
(A  voice  to  thrill,  to  startle,  to  appall !) — 
"Prepare !  the  time  grows  ripe  to  meet 

our  doom!" 


Thy  careless  sisters  frowned,  or  mocking 
said: 

"  We  see  no  threatening  tempest  over- 
head, 

Only  a  few  pale  clouds,  the  west  wind's 
breath 

Will  sweep  away,  or  melt  in  watery 
death." 

'•  Prepare .'  the  time  groivs  ripe  to  meet 

our  doom  !  " 
Alas !  it  was  not  till  the  thunder-boom 
Of  shell  and  cannon  shocked  the  vernal 

day, 
Which  shone  o'er  Charleston  Bay,* 
That  startled,  roused,  the  last  scale  fallen 

away 
From  blinded  eyes,  our  South,  erect  and 

proud, 
Fronted  the  issue,  and,  though  lulled  too 

long, 
Felt  her  great  spirit  nerved,  her  patriot 

valor  strong. 


Death !    What  of  death  ?  — 
Can  he  who  once  drew  honorable  breath 

In  liberty's  pine  sphere, 

Foster  a  sensual  fear, 
When  death  and  slavery  meet  him  face 
to  face, 

*  Fort  Sumter,  March,  1861. 


66 


POEMS    OF   THE    WAR. 


Saying :  "  Choose  thou  between  us ;  here, 

the  grace 
Which  follows  patriot  martyrdom,  and 

there, 
Black  degradation,  haunted  by  despair." 

The  very  thought  brings  blushes  to  the 
cheek ! 

I  hear  all  'round  about  me  murmurs 
run, 

Hot  murmurs,  but  soon  merging  into 
one 

'Soul-stirring  utterance  —  hark!  the  peo- 
ple speak: 

(l  Our  course  is  righteous,  and  our  aims 

are  just! 
Behold,  we  seek 
Not  merely  to  preserve  for  noble  wives 
The  virtuous  pride  of  unpolluted  lives. 
To  shield  our  daughters  from  the  servile 

band, 
And  leave  our  sons  their  heirloom  of 

command, 
In  generous  perpetuity  of  trust ; 
Not  only  to  defend  those  ancient  laws, 
Which   Saxon   sturdiness  and   Norman 

tire 
Welded    forevermore     with    freedom's 

cause, 
And  handed  scathless  down  from  sire  to 

sire  — 
Nor  yet  our    grand  religion,   and    our 

Christ, 
Unsoiled    by   secular    hates,   or    sordid 

harms, 
(Though  these  had  sure  sufficed 
To  urge  the  feeblest  Sybarite  to  arms)  — 
But  more  than  all,  because  embracing 

all, 
Ensuring     all,     self-government,      the 

boon 
Our  patriot  statesmen  strove  to  win  and 

keep, 
From  prescient  Pinckney  and  the  wise 

Calhoun 
To  him,  that  gallant  knight, 
The  youngest  champion  in  the  Senate 

hall, 


Who,  led  and  guarded  by  a  luminous 
fate, 

His  armor.  Courage,  and  his  war-horse, 
Bight, 

Dared  through  the  lists  of  eloquence  to 
sweep 

Against  the  proud  Bois  Guilbert  of  de- 
bate !  * 

"  There's  not  a  tone  from  out  the  teem- 
ing past, 
Uplifted  once  in  such  a  cause  as  ours, 
Which  does  not  smite  our  souls 
In  long  reverberating  thunder-rolls, 
From  the  far  mountain-steeps  of  ancient 

story, 
Above    the    shouting,    furious    Persian 

mass, 
Millions   arrayed    in    pomp    of    Orient 

powers, 
Bings  the  wild  war-cry  of  Leonidas 
Pent  in  his  rugged  fortress  of  the  rock ; 
And  o'er  the  murmurous  seas, 
Compact  of  hero-faith  and  patriot  bliss 
(For  conquest    crowns   the   Athenian's 

hope  at  last), 
Come  the  clear  accents  of  Miltiades, 
Mingled  with    cheers    that    drown  the 

battle-shock 
Beside  the  wave-washed  strand  of  Sala- 

mis. 

"  Where'er    on    earth   the   self-devoted 

heart 
Hath  been  by  worthy  deeds  exalted  thus, 
We  look  for  proud  exemplars;   yet  for 

us 
It  is  enough  to  know 
Our  fathers  left  us  freemen ;  let  us  show 
The  will  to  hold  our  lofty  heritage, 
The  patient  strength  to  act  our  father's 

part. 

"Yea!  though  our  children's  blood 
Bain  "round   us   in  a   crimson-swelling 
flood, 

*  Vide  the  Senatorial  debate  on   "  Foote's 
Besolution,"  in  183H. 


ODE. 


67 


Why  pause  or  falter  '?  —  that  red  tide 
shall  bear 
The  ark  that  holds  our  shrined  liberty, 
Nearer,  and  yet  more  near 
Some  height  of  promise  o'er  the  ensan- 
guined sea. 

"  At  last,  the  conflict  done, 
The  fadeless  meed  of  final  victory  won, 
Behold !  emerging  from  the  rifted  dark 
Athwart    a    shining     summit    high    in 
heaven, 
That  delegated  Ark! 
Xo  more   to   be   by  vengeful  tempests 

driven, 
But    poised    upon    the    sacred    mount, 

whereat 
The  congregated  nations  gladly  gaze, 
Struck  by  the    quiet    splendor   of    the 

rays 
That  circle  freedom's  blood-bought  Ara- 
rat!" 

Thus  spake  the  people's  wisdom;  unto 

me 
Its  voice  hath  come,  a  passionate  augury! 
Methinks  the  very  aspect  of  the  world 
Changed  to    the   mystic    music   of    its 

hope. 
For,  lo!  about  the  deepening  heavenly 

cope 
The  stormy   cloudland  banners   all  are 
furled, 
And  softly  borne  above 
Are  brooding  pinions  of  invisible  love, 
Distilling    balm  of    rest    and   tender 

thought 
From  fairy  realms,  by  fairy  witchery 
wrought: 
O'er  the    hushed    ocean  steal   ethereal 
gleams 
Divine  as  light  that  haunts  an  angel's 

dreams  : 
And  universal  nature,  wheresoever 
My  vision  strays  —  o'  er  sky,  and  sea,  and 
river  — 
Sleeps,  like  a  happy  child, 
In  slumber  undefiled, 
A  premonition  of  sublimer  days, 


"When  war  and  warlike  lays 

At  length  shall  cease, 

Before  a  grand  Apocalypse  of  Peace, 

Vouchsafed  in  mercy  to  all   human 

kind  — 
A  prelude  and  a  prophecy  combined ! 


ODE. 

[In  honor  of  the  bravery  and  sacrifices  of  thv 
soldiers  of  the  South.] 

With  bayonets  slanted  in  the  glittering 
light. 
With  solemn  roll  of  drums, 
With  star-lit  banners  rustling  wings  of 
might, 
The  knightly  concourse  comes! 
The  flower  and  fruit  of  all  the  tropic 

lands, 
The  unsheathed  brightness  of  their  stain- 
less brands 
Blazing  in  courtly  hands, 
One  glorious  soul  within  those  thoxtsand 

eyes, 
One  aim,  one  hope,  one  impulse  from 
the  skies, 
While  silent,  awed  and  dumb, 
A  nation  waits  the  end  in  dread  sur- 
mise, 
They  come !  they  come ! 

The  summer  flaunts  her  vivid    leaves 

above 
The  unwonted  scene, 
The    summer    heavens    embrace    with 

smiles  of  love 
The  hill-slopes  green ; 
Far  in  the  uppermost  realms  of  silent 

aii- 
Peace  sits  enthroned  and  happy,  but  on 

earth 
The  cymbals  clash,  and  the  shrill  trum- 
pets blare, 
And  Death,  like  some  grim  mower  on 

the  plain, 
Topped  by  the  ripened  grain, 
Whets  his   keen   scythe,  and  shakes  it 

fearfully ! 


68 


POEMS    OF    THE    WAR. 


Our  serried  lines   march   sternly  to  the 
front, 

Where  decked  as  if  they  rose  to  celebrate 
A  joyous  festal  morn. 

In   glistening  pomp   and   splendid  bla- 
zonry, 
Slow  moving  as  in  scorn 

Of  those  weak  bands  that  guard  the  pass 
below, 

Come  gorgeous,  flushed  and  proud,  the 
cohorts  of  the  foe ! 

They  wheel !  deploy,  are  stationed,  down 
the  cleft 
Of  the  long  gorge  their  signal  thun- 
ders run ! 

A  sidlen  answer  echoes  from  our  left 
And  the  great  fight's  begun  ! 

O !     who    shall     picture    the    immortal 
fray  ? 

Our  Southern  host  that  day 

Breasted  the  onset  of  the  invading  sea 

With    wills    of    adamant;    but    stern- 
weighted  strength, 

Like  waves  by  some  infernal  alchemy 

Hardened,  transformed  to   solid  metal, 
burning 

At  white  heat  as  they  struck,  and  aye 
returning 

Hotter  and  more  resistless  than  before 

(All  flecked  atop  with  foam  of  human 
gore), 

Pierced  here  and  there  our  crumbling 
ranks  at  length. 
Which  as  a  mountain  shore, 

Rock-ribbed  and  iron  founded,  still  had 
stood, 
And  outward  hurled 

In  bloody   sprayings,   that  tremendous 
flood 

Which,  with   wild   charge   and  furious 
brunt  on  brunt, 

Had  dashed  against  us  like  a  fiery  world ! 

Unceasing  still  poured  on  the  fateful 

tide, 
And  plumed  victory  ever  seemed  to  ride 
On  the  red  billows  of  the  northland  war! 
Our  glory  and  pride 


Had     fallen,  —  fallen     in    the    terrible 
van ,  — 

Like  wine  the  life-streams  ran; 

"Back!  back!"     cried  one  (it  was  the 
voice  of  Bee, 

Lifted  in  wrath  and  bitter  agony), 

"  We're  driven  backward !  "  unto  whom 
there  came 

An  answer,  like  the  rush  of  steady  flame, 

'Twixt  ribs  of  iron,  "  We  will  give  them 
yet 
The  bayonet! 

The  sharp  edge  of  the  Southern  bayo- 
net!'' 

At  which  the  other's  face  flushed  up, 
and  caught 

Light    like    a   warrior-angel's,   and    he 
sprang 

To  the  front  rank,  while  swift  as  pas- 
sionate thought 

Leaped  forth  his  sword,  and  this  high 
summons  rang: 
"  See!  see!  where  fixed  and  grand, 

Like  a  stone  wall  the  braves  of  Jackson 
stand ! 

Forward!"    and    on     he     rushed    with 
quivering  breath. 
On  to  his  Spartan  death ! 

Unceasing  still  poured  down  the  fateful 

tide, 
And  plumed  victory  ever  seemed  to  ride 
O'er  the   red  billows  of   the  northland 

war! 
When  faint  and  far. 
Far  on  our  left  there  rose  a  sound  that 

thrilled 
All  souls,  and  even  the  battle's  thunder- 
ous pulse 
(Or  so   we   deemed)   for  briefest  space 

was  stilled : 
A  sound,  low  hissing  as  a  meteor-star, 
But  gathering  depth  of  volume,  till  it 

burst 
In  one  great  flamelike  cheer, 
That  seemed  to  rend  and  lift  the  cloud 

accurst. 
The  poisonous-clinging  cloud 
That  wrapped  us  in  its  shroud, 


ODE. 


69 


While  wounded  men  leaped  on  their  feet 
to  hear, 

And  dying  men  upraised  their  eyes  to 
see 

How  on  the  conflict* s  lowering  canopy, 

Dawned  the  first  rainbow  hues  of  vic- 
tory ! 

Have  you  watched  the  condor  leap 
From  his  proud  Andean  rock, 
And  with  hurtling  pinions  sweep 
On  the  valley-pasturing  flock  ? 
Have  you  watched  an  eygre  vast 
On  the  rude  September  blast 
Roll  adown  with  curved  crest 
0"er  the  low  sands  of  the  West  ? 
O !  thus  and  thus  they  came 
(Four  thousand  men  and  more), 
Hearts,  faces,  —  all  aflame, 
And  the  grandeur  of  their  wrath 
Whirled  the  tyrant  from  their  path 
As  the  frightened  rack  is  driven 
By  the  unleashed  winds  in  heaven ; 
Then,  maddened,  tossed  about 
In  a  reckless,  hopeless  rout, 
The  Northern  army  fled 
O'er  their  dying  and  their  dead, 
And  the  Southern  steel  flashed  out, 
And  their  vengeful  points  were  red 
With  the  hot  heart's  tide  that  flowed 
Where  they  sabred  as  they  rode ! 
And  the  news  sped  on  apace 
(Where  the  Eiders,  in  their  place, 
Sat  jubilant,  one  and  all), 
Till  a  shadow  seemed  to  fall 
Round  their  joyance  like  a  pall, 
And  the  inmost  senate-hall 
Pealed  an  echo  of  disgrace ! 
At  the  set  of  July's  sun 
They  stood  quivering  and  undone, 
For  the  eagle  standards  waned  and  the 
Southern  "stars"  had  won! 

Thus  loomed  serene  and  large 
Upon  that  desperate  contest's  lurid 
marge 
Our  orb  of  destiny;  millions  of  hearts 
Throb  with  bold  exultation, 


From  mountain  fastness,  and  from  wav- 
ing plain. 

From  wooded  swamp  and  mist-encircled 
main. 
From  hamlet,  city,  field, 
And  the  rich  midland  weald. 

The  spirit  of  the  antique  hero  time ! 

O  !  'twas  a  sight  sublime 

To  watch  the  upheaval  of  the  popular 
soul, 

The  stormy  gathering,  —  the  majestic  roll 

Upward  of  its  wild  forces,  by  the  awe 

Of  Right  and  Justice  steadied  into  law! 

Faith  lent  our  cause  its  heavenly  conse- 
cration ! 
Hope  its  omnipotent  might ! 

And  Fame  stood  ready,  with  her  flowers 
of  light, 

To  crown  alike  the  living  and  the  dead, 

While  in  the  broadening  firmament  o'er- 
head 

We  seemed  to  read  the  fiat  of  our  fate, 
''  Ye  are  baptized,  —  a  Nation ! 

Amongst  the  freest,  free,  —  amongst  the 
mightiest,  great!" 

An  ominous  hush!  and  then  the  scat- 
tered clouds 
In  the  dark  northern  heaven 

(Clouds  of  a  deadlier  strife), 
Urged  by  the  poison  wind 
Of   rage  and  rapine,   sullenly  com- 
bined, 

Charged  with  the  bolts  of  ruin!  what 
were  shrouds, 

Crimsoned    with    gore  ?    the    widowed 
spirit  riven  ? 

The  desecration  of  God's  gift  of  life, 

To  that  one  thought  ( three  fiery  strands 
uniting, 
Hot  from  a  Hadean  loom), 

,;  Conquest ! "     "  Revenge !  "    Suprema- 
cy ?"  The  blighting 

Of  untold  promises,  the  grief,  the  gloom, 

The  desolate  madness  and  the  anguish 
blind. 
All  spreading  on  and   on 

From  murdered  sire  to  subjugated  son, 

Were  less  than  nothing  to  the  arrogant 


70 


POEMS    OF  THE    WAR. 


Which  treaties,   compacts,  honor,  laws 

defied, 
And  aimed  above  the  wrecks  of  temple 

and  tower 
To  rear  the   symbols    of    its   merciless 

power ! 

Four  deadly  years  we  fought, 
Einged  by  a  girdle  of  unfaltering  fire, 
That  coiled  and  hissed  in  lessening  cir- 
cles nigher. 
Blood  dyed  the  .Southern  wave; 
From  ocean  border  to  calm  inland  river. 
There  was  no  pause,  no  peace,  no  respite 
ever. 
Blood  of  our  bravest  brave 
Drenched  in  a  scarlet  rain  the  western 

lea, 
Swelled  the  hoarse  waters  of  the  Tennes- 
see, 
'  Incarnadined  the  gulfs,  the  lakes,  the 
rills, 
And  from  a  hundred  hills 
Steamed   in  a  mist  of  slaughter  to  the 

skies, 
Shutting  all  hope  of  heaven  from  mortal 

eyes. 
The  Beaufort  blooms  were  withered  on 
the  stem; 
The  fair  gulf  city  in  a  single  night 
Lost  her  imperial  diadem ; 
And  wheresoe'er  men's  troubled  vision 

sought, 
They  viewed   might  towering  o'er  the 
humbled  crest  of  eight  ! 

But  for  a  time,  but  for  a  time,  O 

God! 
The  innate  forces  of  our  knightly  blood 
Rallied,  and  by  the  mount,  the  fen,  the 

flood, 
Upraised  the  tottering  standards  of 

our  race. 
O  grand  Virginia !  though  thy  glittering 

glaive 
Lies    sullied,    shattered    in    a    ruthless 

grave, 
How   it   flashed   once!   They  dug  their 

trenches  deep 


(The  implacable  foe),  they  ranged  their 

lines  of  wrath ; 
But    watchful    ever    on    the    imminent 

path 
Thy  steel-clad  genius  stood; 
North,  South,  East,  West,— they  strove 

to  pierce  thy  shield ; 
Thou  would? st  not  yield! 
Until,  —  unconquered,  yea.  unconquered 

still, 
Nature's  weakened  forces  answered  not 

thy  will. 
And  gored  with  wound  on  wound. 
Thy  fainting  limbs  and  forehead  sought 

the  ground ; 
And  with  thee  the  young  nation  fell,  a 

pall 
Solemn   and   ravless.  covering  one  and 

all' 
God's   ways    are    marvellous;    here   we 

stand  to-day 
Discrowned,  and  shorn,   in  wildest  dis- 
array. 
The  mock  of  earth  .'  yet  never  shone  the 

sun 
On   sterner  deeds,   or    nobler    victories 

won. 
Not  in   the  field  alone;  ah.  come  with 

me 
To  the  dim  bivouac  by  the  winter's  sea; 
Mark   the  fair  sons  of  courtly  mothers 

crouch 
O'er  flickering  fires;  but  gallant  still,  and 

gay 

As  on  some  bright  parade ;  or  mark  the 

couch 
In  reeking  hospitals,  whereon  is  laid 
The  latest  scion  of  a  line  perchance, 
Whose    veins    were    royal;    close    your 

blurred  romance, 
Blurred  by  the  dropping  of  a  maudlin 

tear, 
And  watch  the  manhood  here ; 
That  firm  but  delicate  countenance, 
Distorted  sometimes  by  an  awful  pang, 
Born  in  meek  patience ;  when  the  trum- 
pets rang 
' '  To  horse ! ' '  but  yester-morn,  that  ar- 
dent boy 


CHARLESTON. 


71 


Sprung  to  his  charger,  thrilled  with  hope 

and  joy 
To  the  very  finger-tips,  and  now  he  lies, 
The  shadows  deepening  in  those  falcon 

eyes, 
But  calm  and  undismayed, 
As  if  the  death  that  chills  him,  brow  and 

breast. 
Were  some  fond  bride  who  whispered, 

"  Let  us  rest!  " 

Enough  '■  'tis  over!  the  last  gleam  of  hope 

Hath  melted  from  our  mournful  horo- 
scope, 
Of  all,  of  all  bereft, 
Only  to  us  are  left 

Our  buried  heroes  and  their  matchless 
deeds ; 

These  cannot  pass;  they  hold  the  vital 
seeds 

Which    in    some    far,    untracked,    un- 
visioned  hour 

May  burst   to  vivid  bud   and    glorious 
flower. 
Meanwhile,  upon  the  nation's  bro- 
ken heart 

Her  martyrs  sleep.    O !  dearer  far  to  her, 

Than  if  each  son,  a  wreathed  conqueror, 
Rode  in  triumphant  state 
The  loftiest  crest  of  fate  ; 

O  !  dearer  far,  because  outcast  and  low, 

She  yearns  above  them  in  her  awful  woe. 

One  spring  its  tender  blooms 

Hath  lavished  richly  by  those  hallowed 
tombs ; 

One  summer  its  imperial  largess  spread 

Along  our  heroes'  bed  ;• 

<  )ne  autumn  wailing  with  funereal  blast, 

The   withered    leaves    and    pallid   dust 
amassed 

All  round  about  them,  till  bleak  winter 
now 

Hangs  hoar-frost  on  the  grasses,  and  the 
bough 

In  dreary  woodlands  seems  to  thrill  and 
start, 

Thrill  to  r/he  anguish  of  the  wind  that 
raves 

Across  those  lonely  desolated  graves ! 


CHARLESTON. 

Calmly  beside  her  tropic  strand, 

An  empress,  brave  and  loyal. 
I  see  the  watchful  city  stand, 

With  aspect  sternly  royal; 
She  knows  her  mortal  foe  draws  near, 

Armored  by  subtlest  science, 
Yet  deep,  majestical,  and  clear, 

Rings  out  her  grand  defiance. 
Oh,  glorious  is  thy  noble  face, 

Lit  up  by  proud  emotion, 
And  unsurpassed  thy  stately  grace. 

Our  warrior  Queen  of  Ocean! 

First  from  thy  lips  the  summons  came, 

Which  roused  our  South  to  action. 
And,    with    the     cpienchless    force    of 
flame. 

Consumed  the  demon,  Faction; 
First,  like  a  rush  of  sovereign  wind. 

That  rends  dull  waves  asunder, 
Thy  prescient  warning  struck  the  blind, 

And  woke  the  deaf  with  thunder : 
They  saw,  with  swiftly  kindling  eyes. 

The  shameful  doom  before  them, 
And  heard,  borne  wild  from  Xorthern 
skies, 

The  death-gale  hurtling  o'er  them: 

Wilt  thou,  whose  virgin  banner  rose, 

A  morning  star  of  splendor. 
Quail  when  the  war-tornado  blows. 

And  crouch  in  base  surrender  ? 
Wilt  thou,  upon  whose  loving  breast 

Our  noblest  chiefs  are  sleeping, 
Yield  thy  dead  patriots'  place  of  rest 

To  scornful  alien  keeping  ? 
Xo!  while  a  life-pulse  throbs  for  fame, 

Thy  sons  will  gather  round  thee, 
Welcome  the  shot,  the  steel,  the  flame, 

If  honor's  hand  hath  crowned  thee. 

Then  fold  about  thy  beauteous  form 
The  imperial  robe  thou  wearest. 

And  front  with  regal  port  the  storm 
Thy  foe  would  dream  thou  f earest ; 

If  strength,  and  will,  and  courage  fail 
To  cope  with  ruthless  numbers, 


72 


FOE  MS    OF  HIE    WAR. 


And  thou  must  bend,  despairing,  pale, 
Where  thy  last  hero  slumbers, 

Lift  the  red  torch,  and  light  the  fire 
Amid  those  corpses  gory, 

And  on  thy  self-made  funeral  pyre, 
Pass  from  the  world  to  glory. 


STUART. 

A  cup  of  your  potent  '•mountain  dew," 
By  the  camp-fire's  ruddy  light; 

Let  us  drink  to  a  spirit  as  leal  and  true 
As  ever  drew  blade  in  fight, 

And  dashed  on  the   foeman's   lines   of 
steel, 
For  God  and  his  people's  right. 

By  heaven !  it  seems  that  his  very  name 

Embodies  a  thought  of  fire; 
It  strikes  on  the  ear  with  a  sense  of  flame, 

And  the  life-blood  boundeth  higher, 
While  the  pulses  leap  and  the  brain  ex- 
pands, 

In  the  glow  of  a  grand  desire. 

Hark  !  in  the  day-dawn's  misty  gray, 

Our  bugles  are  ringing  loud. 
And  hot  for  the  joy  of  a  coming  fray, 

Our  souls  wax  fierce  and  proud. 
As  we  list  for  the  word  that  shall  launch 
us  forth, 

Like  bolts  from  the  mountain-cloud. 

We  list  for  the  word,  and  it  comes  at 
length, 
In  a  strain  so  mighty  and  clear, 
That  we  rise  to  the  sound  with  an  added 
strength, 
And  our  hearts  are  glad  to  hear, 
And  a  stir,  like  the  breath  of  the  boding 
storm 
Thrills  through  us,  from  van  to  rear. 

Then,   with  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind 

freed, 
We  rush,  by  a  secret  way, 
And  merry  on  sabre,  and  helmet,  and 

steed. 


Do  the  autumn  sunbeams  play, 
And  the  devil  must  sharpen  his  keenest 
wits, 
To  rescue  "his  own*'  to-day. 

Ho,  ye  who  dwell  in  the  fertile  vales 

Of  the  pleasant  land  of  Penn, 
Who   feast   on   the  fat  of  her  fruitful 
dales, 
How  little  ye  dream  or  ken 
That  the  southern  Murat  has  bared  his 
brand , 
That  the  Stuart  rides  again. 

''Close  up,  close  up!  we  have  travelled 
long, 
But  a  jovial  night's  in  store, 
A  night  of  wassail,  and  wit,  and  song, 

In  yon  cosy  town  before. 
Quick,  sergeant!   spur  to  the   front  in 
haste, 
And  knock  at  the  mayor's  door.'' 

Behold,    he    comes    with    a    ghost-like 
grace, 
And  his  knee-joints  out  of  tune; 
And  the  cold,  cold  sweat  runs  down  his 
face, 
I'  the  light  of  the  autumn  moon, 
While  his-  husky  voice,  like  an  ancient 
crone's. 
Hies  in  a  hollow  croon. 

He  cannot  speak;  but  his  buxom  dame, 

With  her  trembling  daughters  nigh, 
Shrieks  out,    "Oh,  honor  their  virgin 
fame, 
Pass  the  poor  maidens  by." 
(Whereon,   with   a   grievous  heave  and 
sob, 
She  paused  in  her  speech  —  to  cry.) 

"  Rise  up !  we  leave  to  the  churlish  brood 
Our  vengeance  hath  sought  ere  now, 

The  fame  which  springs  from  the  ruth- 
less mood 
That  crimsons  a  Avoman's  brow; 

For  sons  are  we  of  a  kindly  race, 
And  bound  bv  a  knightly  vow. 


BEYOND    THE   POTOMAC. 


73 


"  Rise  up !  we  war  with  the  strong  alone ; 

For  where  was  the  caitiff  found. 
To    sport   with    an    outraged   woman's 
moan, 

"Where  the  southern  trumpets  sound? 

"  Enough !  while  I  speak  of  the  past,  my 
lad, 


There's    coming —  (hush!    lean    thee 
near ! ) — 
There's   coining  a  raid  that  shall  drive 
them  mad, 
And  cover  their  land  with  fear; 
And    you    and    I,   by  the   blessing    of 
God, 
Ay,  you  and  I  shall  be  there." 


flfcfc  i>'  J- 


^ 


"  They  arose  with  the  sun,  and  caught  life 
from  his  light." 


BEYOND    THE  POTOMAC. 


They  slept  on  the  field  which  their  valor 
had  won, 

But  arose  with  the  first  early  blush  of 
the  sun, 

For  they  knew  that   a  great  deed  re- 
mained to  be  done, 
When  they  passed  o'er  the  river. 


They  arose  with  the  sun,  and  caught  life 

from  his  light, 
Those  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in 

fight. 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in  the  joy 

of  their  might, 
Marchine  swift  for  the  river. 


74 


POEMS    OF   THE    WAR. 


On,    on!    like    the    rushing    of    storms 

through  the  hills; 
On,  on!   with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as 

their  wills; 
And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows 

buoyant,  and  thrills, 
At  the  thought  of  the  river. 

Oh,  the  sheen  of  their  swords !  the  fierce 

gleam  of  their  eyes ! 
It  seemed   as   on   earth  a  new  sunlight 

would  rise, 
And,  king-like,  flash  up  to  the  sun  in 

the  skies, 
O'er  their  path  to  the  river. 

But  their  bannera,  shot-scarred,  and  all 

darkened  with  gore, 
On  a  strong  wind  ot  morning  streamed 

wildly  before , 
Like  wings  of  death-angels  swept  fast  to 

the  shore, 
The  green  shore  of  the  river. 

As  they  march,   from  the  hillside,  the 
hamlet,  the  stream, 

Gaunt  throngs  whom   the  foemen  had 
manacled,  teem, 

Like  men  just  aroused  from  some  ter- 
rible dream. 
To  cross  sternly  the  river. 

They  behold  the  broad  banners,  blood- 
darkened,  yet  fair, 

And  a  moment  dissolves  the  last  spell 
of  despair, 

While  a  peal,  as  of  victory,  swells  on  the 
air. 
Rolling  out  to  the  river. 

And  that  cry,  with  a  thousand  strange 

echoings,  spread, 
Till  the  ashes  of  "heroes  were  thrilled  in 

their  bed, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up 

from  the  dead, 
"  Ay,  press  on  to  the  river  !  " 


On,    on!    like    the    rushing   of    storms 

through  the  hills. 
On,  on!   with   a  tramp  that   is  firm  as 

their  wills; 
And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows 

buoyant  and  thrills, 
As  they  pause  by  the  river. 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland,  hag- 
gard and  worn, 

At  this  sight  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect 
forlorn, 

And  she  turned   on   the  foemen.  full- 
statured  in  scorn. 
Pointing  stern  to  the  river. 

And     Potomac    flowed    calmly,    scarce 

heaving  her  breast. 
With  her  low-lying  billows  all  bright  in 

the  west, 
For   a  charm   as   from   God   lulled    the 

waters  to  rest 
Of  the  fair  rolling  river. 

Passed!    passed!     the     glad    thousands 
march  safe  through  the  tide; 

Hark,  foeman,  and  hear  the  deep  knell 
of  your  pride, 

Ringing  weird-like  and  wild,  pealing  up 
from  the  side 
Of  the  calm-flowing  river. 

'Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty  the  ty- 
rant may  fall : 

Vain,  vain!  to  his  gods  swells  a  desolate 
call ; 

Hath  his  grave  not  been  hollowed,  and 
woven  his  pall, 
Since  they  passed  o'er  the  river  ? 


BE  A  UREOAliD  'S  APPEAL. 

Yea!  since  the  need  is  bitter. 
Take  down  those  sacred  bells, 

Whose  music  speaks  of  hallowed  joys, 
And  passionate  farewells ! 


THE    SUBSTITUTE. 


75 


But  ere  ye  fall  dismantled, 
Eing  out,  deep  bells !  once  more : 

And  pour  on  the  waves  of  the  passing 
wind 
The  symphonies  of  yore. 

Let  the  latest  born  be  welcomed 

By  pealings  glad  and  long, 
Let  the  latest  dead  in  the  churchyard 
bed 

Be  laid  with  solemn  song. 

And  the  bells  above  them  throbbing, 
Should  sound  in  mournful  tone, 

As  if,  in  grief  for  a  human  death, 
They  prophesied  their  own. 

Who  says  'tis  a  desecration 

To  strip  the  temple  towers, 
And  invest  the  metal  of  peaceful  notes 

With  death-compelling  powers  '? 

A  truce  to  cant  and  folly! 

Our  people's  all  at  stake, 
Shall  we  heed  the   cry  of   the  shallow 
fool, 

Or  pause  for  the  bigot's  sake  ? 

Then  crush  the  struggling  sorrow ! 

Feed  high  your  furnace  fires, 
And  mould  into  deep-mouthed  guns  of 
bronze, 

The  bells  from  a  hundred  spires. 

Methinks  no  common  vengeance, 

No  transient  war  eclipse, 
AVill  follow  the  awful  thunder-burst 

From  their  adamantine  lips. 

A  cause  like  ours  is  holy, 

And  it  useth  holy  things ; 
While  over  the   storm   of    a   righteous 
strife, 

May  shine  the  angel's  wings. 

Where'er  our  duty  leads  us, 

The  grace  of  God  is  there, 
And  the  lurid  shrine  of  war  may  hold 

The  Eucharist  of  prayer. 


THE  SUBSTITUTE. 

[The  crime  of  McNeil,  perpetrated  in  one  of 
our  Western  States,  has  now  met  with  the  rep- 
robation of  Christendom.  But  at  the  time 
the  following  verses  —  cast,  as  the  reader  will 
perceive,  in  a  partly  dramatic  mould — were 
composed,  ten  Confederates  had  been  hastily 
executed  by  order  of  a  Federal  commander,  on 
a  charge  afterwards  proven  to  be  false  ;  and 
one  of  the  unfortunate  victims  (a  mere  youth) 
voluntarily  sacrificed  his  life  to  rescue  his 
friend,  a  man  advanced  in  years  and  with  a 
large  family. 

In  the  poem  this  latter  individual  is  repre- 
sented as  unaware  of  the  youth's  resolve  until 
it  has  been  executed. 

Between  the  first  and  second  parts  of  the 
piece,  about  twenty-four  hours  are  supposed  to 
have  elapsed.] 

PART   I. 

[Place  —  A  Federal  Prison  — A    Confederate 
chained,  and  a  Visitor,  his  Friend.] 

"How  say'st   thou?    die  to-morrrow  ? 
Oh!  my  friend! 
The  bitter,  bitter  doom ! 
What   hast    thou    done    to    tempt  this 
ghastly  end  — 
This  death  of  shame  and  gloom  '?  " 

'"What    done?     Do     tyrants    wait    for 
guilty  deeds, 
To  find  or  prove  a  crime  — 
They,  who  have  cherished  hatred's  fiery 
seeds : 
Hot  for  the  harvest-time  ? 

"A  sneer!  a  smile!  vague  trifles  light  as 
air  — 

Some  foolish,  false  surmise  — 
Lead  to  the  harrowing  drama  of  despair 

Wherein  —  the  victim  dies ! 

"And  I  shall  perish!     Comrade,   heed 
me  not ! 

For  thus  my  tears  must  start  — 
Not  for  the  misery  of  my  blasted  lot, 

But  hers  who  holds  my  heart! 

"And  theirs,  the  flowers  that  wreathe 
my  humble  hearth 
With  roseate  blush  and  bloom, 


76 


POEMS    OF   THE    WAR. 


To-morrow  eve,   they   stand    alone    on 

"And    now,    farewell!      The     sentry's 

earth, 

warning  hand, 

Beside  their  father's  tomb! 

Taps  at  my  prison  bars. 

"There's   Blanche,  my  serious  beauty, 

We  part,  but  not  forever!  There's  a 
land, 

lithe  and  tall, 

Comrade,  beyond  the  stars!" 

With  pensive  eyes  and  brow  — 

There's   Kate,  the  tenderest  darling  of 

"Yea!"    said   the   youth,  and  o'er  his 

them  all, 

kindling  face 

Whose  kisses  thrill  me  now ! 

A  saint-like  glory  came, 

"  There's  little  Rose,  the  sunshine  of  our 

As  if  some  prescient  Angel,  breathing 
grace, 

days  — 
A  tricky,  gladsome  sprite  — 

Had  touched  it  into  flame. 

How   vividly   come   back  her  winsome 

ways, 

PART   II. 

Her  laughters,  and  delight ! 

[Place  —  The  same  Prison.  Persons  —  Con- 

federate Prisoner,  together  with  McNeil  and  the 

"  And  my  brave  boy  —  my  Arthur!    Did 

Jailer.} 

his  arm 

The  hours  sink  slow  to   sunset!    Sud- 

Second his  will  and  brain, 

denly 

I  should  not  groan    beneath  this   iron 

Bose  a  deep,  gathering  hum; 

charm, 

And  o'er  the  measured  stride  of  soldiery 

Clasping  my  chains  in  vain! 

Piolled  out  the  muffled  drum ! 

"Oh,  Christ!  and  hath  it  come  to  this? 

The  prisoner  started !  crushed  a  stifling 

Will  none 

sigh, 

Ward  off  the  ghastly  end  ? 

Then  rose  erect  and  proud ! 

And  yet  methinks  I  heard  the  voice  of 

Scorn's  lightning  quivering  in  his  stormy 

one 

eye, 

Who  called  the  old  man  —  Friend ! 

'Neath  the  brow's  thunder-cloud! 

"  May  all  the  curses  caught  from  deepest 

And  girding  round  his  limbs  and  stal- 

hell 

wart  breast 

Light  on  the  blood-stained  knave 

Each  iron  chain  and  ring, 

Who  laughs  to  hear  the  patriot's  funeral 

He    stood    sublime,    imperial,    self-pos- 

knell, 

sessed  — 

Blaspheming  o'er  his  grave! 

And  haughty  as  a  king ! 

"Away!      Such   dreams    are   madness! 

The  "dead  march"  wails  without  the 

My  pale  lips 

prison  gate 

Had  best  besiege  Heaven's  ear, 

Up  the  calm  evening  sky ; 

But  in  the  turmoil  of  my  mind's  eclipse, 

And  ruffian  jestings,  born  of  ruffian  hate, 

No  thought,  no  wish  is  clear. 

Make  loud,  unmeet  reply ! 

"Dear    friend,    forgive    me!      Sorrow, 

The  hired  bravoes,  whose  pitiless  features 

frenzy,  ire  — 

pale 

My  bosom's  raging  guests  — 

In  front  of  armed  men, 

By  turn  have  whelmed  me  in  their  floods 

But  whose  magnanimous  courage  will 

of  fire, 

not  quail 

Fierce  passions,  swift  unrests. 

Where  none  can  strike  again ! 

3S 


BATTLE   OF   CHARLESTON  HARBOR. 


77 


The  "dead  march"  wails  without  the 
prison  wall, 
Up  the  calm  evening  sky: 
And  timed  to  the  dread  dirge's  rise  and 
fail. 
Move  the  fierce  murderers  by ! 

They  passed ;  and  wondering  at  his  doom 
deferred, 
Tli3  captive's  lofty  fire 
Sauk  ii  his  heart,  by  torturing  memories 
stirred 
Of  hu  band,  and  of  sire! 

Bui  hark!  the  clash  of  bolt  and  opening 
door ! 
The  tramp  of  hostile  heel! 
When   lo!    upon   the  darkening  prison 
floor, 
Glared  the  false  hound  —  McNeil. 

And  next  him,  like  a  bandog  scenting 
blood, 
Roused  from  his  drunken  ease, 
The  grimy,  low-browed  jailer  glowering 
stood. 
Clanking  his  iron  keys. 

"  Quick !  jailer !  strike  yon  rebel's  fetters 
off, 
And  let  the  old  fool  see 
V\ 'hat   ransom    [with   a  low   and  bitter 
scoff]. 
What  ransom  sets  him  free." 

As  the  night  traveller  in  a  land  of  foes 

The  warning  instinct  feeb. 
That  through  the  treacherous  dimness 
and  repose 

A  shrouded  horror  steals. 

.So,  at  these  veiled  words,  the  captive's 
soul 

Shook  with  a  solemn  dread. 
And  ghostly  voices,  prophesying  dole, 

Moaned  faintly  overhead. 

His  limbs  are  freed!  his  swarthy,  scowl- 
ing guide 
Leads  through  the  silent  town. 


Where  from  dim  casements,  black  with 
wrathful  pride, 
Stern  eyes  gleam  darkly  down. 

They     halted     where     the      woodland 
showered  around 
Dank  leaflets  on  the  sod, 
And  all  the  air  seemed  vocal  with  the 
sound 
Of  wild  appeals  to  God. 

Heaped,  as  if  common  carrion,  in   the 
gloom. 
Xine  mangled  corpses  lay  — 
All    speechless     now  —  but    with    what 
tongues  of  doom 
Reserved  for  judgment  day. 

And  near  them,  bui  apart,  cue  youthful 
form 
Pressed  a  fair  upland  slope, 
O'er  whose  white  brow  a  sunbeam  flicker- 
ing warm, 
Played  like  a  heavenly  hope. 

There,  with  the  same  grand  look  which 
yester-n  ight 

That  face  at  parting  wore, 
The  self-made  martyr  in  the  sunset  light 

Slept  on  his  couch  of  gore. 

The  sunset  waned;  the  wakening  forest 
waved, 
Struck  by  the  north  wind's  moan. 
While  he,  whose  life  this  matchless  death 
has  saved 
Knelt  by  the  corse  —  alone. 


BATTLE   OF   CHARLESTON   HARBOR, 
April  7, 1863. 

Two  hours,  or  more,  beyond  the  prime 
of  a  blithe  April  day, 

The  Northmen's  mailed  '•  Invincibles" 
steamed  up  fair  Charleston  Bay ; 

They  came  in  sullen  file,  and  slow,  low- 
breasted  on  the  wave, 

Black  as  a  midnight  front  of  storm,  and 
silent  as  the  crave. 


78 


POEMS    OF  THE    WAR. 


A  thousand  warrior-hearts  beat  high  as 

these  dread  monsters  drew 
More  closely  to  the  game  of  death  across 

the  breezeless  blue. 
And  twice  ten  thousand  hearts  of  those 

"who  watch  the  scene  afar, 
Thrill  in  the  awful  hush  that  bides  the 

battle's  broadening  star. 

Ea'ch  gunner,  moveless  by  his  gun,  with 

rigid  aspect  stands, 
The  reedy  linstocks  firmly  grasped  in 

bold,  untrembling  hands, 
So  moveless  in  their  marble  calm,  their 

stern,  heroic  guise, 
They  look  like  forms  of  statuecl  stone 

with  burning  human  eyes ! 

Our  banners  on  the  outmost  walls,  with 
stately  rustling  fold, 

Flash  back  from  arch  and  parapet  the 
sunlight's  ruddy  gold  — 

They  mount  to  the  deep  roll  of  drums, 
and  widely  echoing  cheers, 

And  then,  once  more,  dark,  breathless, 
hushed,  wait  the  grim  cannon- 
eers. 

Onward,  in  sullen  file,  and  slow,  low- 
glooming  on  the  wave, 

Near,  nearer  still,  the  haughty  fleet  glides 
silent  as  the  grave, 

When  shivering  the  portentous  calm  o'er 
startled  flood  and  shore, 

Broke  from  the  sacred  Island  Fort  the 
thunder  wrath  of  yore !  * 

The  storm  has  burst !  and  while  we  speak, 

more  furious,  wilder,  higher, 
Dart  from  the  circling  batteries  a  hundred 

tongues  of  fire ; 
The  waves  gleam  red,  the  lurid  vault  of 

heaven  seems  rent  above  — 
Fight  on,  oh,  knightly  gentlemen!   for 

faith,  and  home,  and  love! 

*  Fort  Moultrie. 


There's  not,  in  all  that  line  of  flame,  one 

soul  that  would  not  rise, 
To  seize   the  victor's  wreath  of  blood, 

though    death    must   give    the 

prize ; 
There's  not,  in  all  this  anxious  crowd 

that  throngs  the  ancient  town, 
A  maid  who  does  not  yearn  for  power  to 

strike  one  f oeman  down ! 

The  conflict  deepens!  ship  by  ship  the 
proud  Armada  sweeps, 

Where  fierce  from  Sumter's  raging  breast 
the  volleyed  lightning  leaps, 

And  ship  by  ship,  raked,  overborne,  'ere 
burned  the  sunset  light, 

Crawls  in  the  gloom  of  baffled  hate  be- 
yond the  field  of  fight ! 


CHARLESTON  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  1863. 

What  !  still  does  the  mother  of  treason 
uprear 
Her  crest  'gainst  the  furies  that  darken 
her  sea. 
Unquelled  by  mistrust,  and  unblanched 
by  a  fear, 
Unbowed  hei    proud  head,   and   un- 
bending her  knee. 
Calm,  steadfast  and  free ! 

Ay!  launch  your  red  lightnings!   blas- 
pheme in  your  wrath! 
Shock  earth,  wave,  and  heaven  with 
the  blasts  of  your  ire ; 
But  she  seizes  your  death-bolts  yet  hot 
from  their  path, 
And  hurls  back  your  lightnings  and 
mocks  at  the  fire 
Of  your  fruitless  desire ! 

Ringed  round  by  her  brave,  a  fierce  cir- 
clet of  flame 
Flashes  up  from  the  sword-points  that 
cover  her  breast ; 

She  is  guarded  by  love,  and  enhaloed  by 
fame, 


SCENE  IN  A   COUNTRY  HOSPITAL. 


79 


And  never,  we  swear,  shall  your  foot- 
steps be  pressed, 
Where  her  dead  heroes  rest. 

Her  voice  shook  the  tyrant,  sublime  from 
her  tongue 
Fell  the  accents  of  warning !  a  prophet- 
ess grand  — 
On  her  soil  the  first  life  notes  cf  liberty 
rung, 
And  the   first    stalwart   blow  of   her 
gauntleted  hand 
Broke  the  sleep  of  her  land. 

What  more  ?  she  hath  grasped  in  her 
iron-bound  will 
The  fate  that  would  trample  her  honors 
to  earth; 
The  light  in  those  deep  eyes  is  luminous 
still 
With  the  warmth  of   her  valor,  the 
glow  of  her  worth, 
Which  illumine  the  earth. 

And  beside  her  a  knight  the  great  Bayard 
had  loved, 
"  Without  fear  or  reproach,"  lifts  her 
banner  on  high ; 
He  stands  in  the  vanguard  majestic,  un- 
moved, 
And  a  thousand  firm  souls  when  that 
chieftain  is  nigh, 
Vow  '•  'tis  easy  to  die!" 

Their  words  have  gone  forth  on  the  fet- 
terless air, 
The  world's  breath  is  hushed  at  the 
conflict !    Before 
Gleams  the  bright  form  of  Freedom,  with 
wreaths  in  her  hair  — 
And  what  though  the  chaplet  be  crim- 
soned with  gore  — 
We  shall  prize  her  the  more ! 

And  while  Freedom  lures  on  with  her 
passionate  eyes 
To  the  height  of    her  promise,  the 
voices  of  vr>re 


From  the  storied  profound  of  past  ages 
arise, 
And  the  pomps  of  their  magical  music 
outpour 
O'er  the  war-beaten  shore! 

Then  gird  your  brave  empress,  O  heroes! 
with  flame 
Flashed  up  from  the  sword-points  that 
cover  her  breast ! 
She  is  guarded  by  Love  and  enhaloed  by 
Fame, 
And  never,  stern  foe !  shall  your  foot- 
steps be  pressed 
Where  her  dead  martyrs  rest! 


SCENE  IX  A  COUNTRY  HOSPITAL. 

Here,  lonely,  wounded  and  apart. 
From  out  my  casement's  glimmering 
round, 

I  wratch  the  wayward  bluebirds  dart 
Across  yon  flowery  ground ; 

How  sweet  the  prospect !  and  how  fair 

The  balmy  peace  of  earth  and  air. 

But,  lowering  over  fields  afar, 

A  red  cloud  breaks  with  sulphurous 
breath, 
And  well  I  know  what  gory  star, 

Is  regnant  iu  his  house  of  death ; 
Yet  faint  the  conflict's  gathering  roll, 
To  the  fierce  tempest  in  my  soul. 

I,  who  the  foremost  ranks  had  led, 
To  strike  for  cherished  home  and  land, 

Groan  idly  on  this  torturing  bed, 
With  broken  frame  and  palsied  hand, 

So  nerveless,  'tis  a  task  to  scare, 

The  insects  fluttering  round  my  hair. 

O  God!  for  one  brief  hour  again, 
Of  that  grim  joy  my  spirit  knew, 

When  foemen's   life-blood  poured  like 
rain, 
And  sabres  flashed  and  trumpets  blew: 

One  hour  to  smite,  or  smitten  die 

On  the  wild  breast  of  victorv! 


80 


POEMS    OF   THE    WAU. 


It  may  not  be;  my  pulses  beat 
Too  feebly,  and  my  heart  is  chill. 

Death,  like  a  thief  with  stealthy  feet 
Draws  nigh  to  work  his  ruthless  will; 

Hope.  Honor,  Glory,  pass  me  by, 

But  he  stands  near  with  mocking  eye! 

Ay,  smooth  the  couch!  —  pour  out  the 
draught, 
That,  haply,  for  a  season's  space, 
Hath  power  to  charm  his  fatal  shaft, 

And  warn  the  death-damps  off  my  face, 
A  blest  reprieve  !  —  a  wondrous  boon, 
Thank  Heaven!   this  —  all  —  ends  with 
me  soon. 


vicksb  una.  —  a  ba  llad. 

Foe  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Eained  round  us  in  a  naming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not. 
"  If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 

'•  Be  ramparts  of  the  dead!" 

For  sixtyT  days  and  upwards, 

The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim; 
And  e'en  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian  prayer  and  hymn. 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult. 

As  if  the  fiends  in  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

'Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts; 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 

And  the  little  children  gambolled, 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed, 


Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 
To  the  sports  which  children  love. 

Thrice-mailed   in  the  sweei,  instinctive 
thought 
That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster. 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  about  us,  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the.  conflict's  wild  eclipse, 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 
Whence    shot    a    thousand    quivering 
tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 

Those  death-shafts  warned  aside. 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle  tide; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing. 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode,  with  step  of  hope, 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 


THE  LITTLE    WHITE   GLOVE. 

The  early  springtime  faintly  flushed  the 

earth. 
And  in  the  woods,  and  by  their  favorite 

stream 
The  fair,  wild  roses  blossomed  modestly, 
Above  the  wave  that  wooed  them:  there 

at  eve, 
Philip  had  brought  the  woman  that  he 

loved, 
And  told  his  love,  and  bared  his  burning 

heart. 
She,    Constance,  —  the    shy    sunbeams 

trembling  oft. 
Through  dewy,  leaves  upon  her  golden 

hair.  — 
Made  him  no  answer,  tapped  her  pretty 

foot, 
And   seemed   to  muse:   "To-morrow   I 

depart," 
Said  Philip,  sadly,   "for  wild  fields  of 

war; 


THE  LITTLE    WHITE    GLOVE. 


81 


Shall    I   go    girt    with   love*s    invisible 

A  soft  mist  filled   her  eyes,  and  over- 

mail, 

flowed 

Stronger    than    mortal    armor,    or.    all 

In    sudden    rain    of    passion,    as    she 

stripped 

stretched 

Of  love  and  hope,  march  reckless  unto 

Her  delicate  hand  to  his,  and  plighted 

death?  ' 

troth, 

"And  by  tbeir  favorite  stream, 
The  fair,  wild  roses  blossomed  modestly 
Above  the  wave  that  wooed  them." 


With  lips  more  rosy  than  the  sun-bathed 
flowers ; 

And  Philip  pressed  the  dear  hand  fer- 
vently, 

Wherefrom  in  happy  mood,  he  gently 
drew 

A  small  white  glove,  and  ere  she  guessed 
his  will, 

Clipped  lightly  from  her  head  one  golden 
curl, 

And  bound  the  glove,  and  placed  it  next 
his  heart. 

"Now  I  am  safe,"  cried  Philip;  "this 

pure  charm 
Is  proof  against  all  hazard  or  mischance. 
Here,  yea,  unto  this  self-same  spot  I  vow 
To  bring  it  stainless  back;  and  you  shall 

wear 


This  little  glove  upon  our  marriage 
eve." 

And  Constance  heard  him,  smiling 
through  her  tears. 

Another  springtime  faintly  flushed  the 
earth. 

And  in  the  woods,  and  by  their  favorite 
stream, 

The  fair,  wild  roses  blossomed  modestly 

Above  the  wave  that  wooed  them :  there 
at  eve 

Came  a  pale  woman  with  wild,  wander- 
ing eyes, 

And  tangled,  golden  ringlets,  and  weak 
steps 

Tottering  towards  the  streamlet's  rip- 
pling marge. 

She  seemed  phantasmal,  shadowy,  like 
the  forms 


82 


POEMS    OF   THE    WAR. 


By  moonlight  conjured  up  from  a  place 

of  graves; 
There,  crouching  o'er  the  stream,  she 

laved  and  laved 
Some  ohject  in  it,  with  a  strained  regard. 
And  muttered  fragments  of  distempered 

words, 
Whereof   were  these:    "He  vowed    to 

bring  it  back, 
The  love-charm   that  I  gave  him  —  my 

white  glove  — 
Stainless  and  whole.     He  has  not  kept 

his  oath ! 
Oh,  Philip,  Philip !  have  you  cast  me  off, 
Off,  like  this  worthless  thing  you  send 

me  home, 
Tattered    and   mildewed?     Look    you! 

what  a  rent, 
Eight  through  the  palm !    It  cannot  be 

my  glove ; 
And  look  again;  what  horrid  stain  is 

here  ? 
My  glove ;  you  placed  it  next  your  heart, 

and  swore 
To  keep  it  safe,  and  on  this  self-same 

spot, 
Return  it  to  me  on  our  marriage  eve ; 
And  now  —  and  now  —  I  know  'tis  not 

my  glove,  — 
Yet  Philip,  sweet!  it  was  a  cruel  jest, 
You  surely  did  not  mean  to  fright  me 

thus  ? 
For  hark  you !  as  I  laved  the  loathsome 

thing, 
To   see  what  stain   defiled  it — (do   not 

smile, 
I  feel  that   I  am  foolish,  foolish,  Phil- 

ip)- 
But,  God   of   Heaven!    I  dreamed  that 

stain  was  blood! " 


S  TONE  WA  L  L   J  A  CKS  ON. 

The   fashions  and  the  forms   of    men 

decay, 
The  seasons  perish,  the  calm  sunsets  die, 
Ne'er  with  the  same  bright  pomp   of 

cloud  or  ray 


To  flush  the  golden  pathways  of  the  sky; 
All  things  are  lost  in  dread  eternity,  — 
States,  empires,  creeds,  the  lay 
Of  master    poets,    even   the   shapes   of 

love, 
Bear  ever  with  them  an  invisible  shade, 
Whose  name  is  Death;  we  cannot  breathe 

nor  move, 
But  that  we  touch  the  darkness,  till  dis- 
mayed, 
We  feel  the  imperious  shadow  freeze  our 

hearts, 
And  mortal  hope  grows  pale  and  flutter- 
ing life  departs. 
All  things  are  lost  in  dread  eternity, 
Save  that  majestic  virtue  which  is  given 
Once,    twice,    perchance    beneath    our 

earthly  heaven, 
To  some  great  soul  in  ages:  O!  the  lie, 
The  base,  incarnate  lie  we  call  the  world, 
Shakes   at   his    coming,    as    the    forest 

shakes, 
When  mountain  storms,  with  bannered 

clouds  unfurled, 
Bush  down  and  rend  it;  sleek  conven- 
tion drops 
Its    glittering    mass,    and    hoary,    cob- 
webbed  rules 
Of  petty  charlatans  or  insolent  fools 
Shrink  to  annihilation,  —  Truth  awakes, 
A    morning    splendor    in    her    fearless 
eyes, 
Touching  the  delicate  stops 
Of  some   rare   lute   which   breathes  of 
promise  fair, 
Or  pouring  on  the  covenanted  air 
A    trumpet    blast    which    startles,    but 
makes  strong, 
While  ancient  Wrong, 
Driven  like  a  beast  from  his  deep-cav- 
erned  lair, 
Grows  gaunt,  and  inly  quakes, 
Knowing  that  retribution  draws  so  near! 

Whether  with  blade  or  pen 
Toil  these  immortal  men, 
Theirs  is  the  light  supreme,  which  genius 
wed 
To  a  clear  spiritual  dower 


STONEWALL   JACKSON. 


83 


Hath  ever  o'er  the  aroused  nations  shed 
Joy,  faith,  and  power; 

Whether  from  wrestling  with  the  god- 
like thought, 

They  launch    a    noiseless    blessing    on 
mankind, 

Or  through  wild  streams  of  terrible  car- 
nage brought, 
No  longer  crushed  and  blind. 
Trample^.,  dishevelled,  gored, 

They  proudly  lift,  where  kindling  soul 
and  eye 

May  feast  upon  her  beauty  as  she  stands 

(Girt  by  the  strength  of  her  invincible 
bands), 

And  freed  through  keen  redemption  of 
the  sword, 

Thy  worn,  but  radiant  form,  victorious 
Liberty ! 

We   bow  before    this   grandeur  of   the 
spirit ; 
We  worship,  and  adore 

God's  image   burning  through   it  ever- 
more ; 

And  thus,  in  awed  humility  to-night,* 

As  those  who  at   some  vast  cathedral 
door 

Pause  with  hushed  faces,    purified  de- 
sires, 
We  contemplate  his  merit, 

Who  lifted  failure  to  the  heights  of  fame, 

And  by  the  side  of  fainting,  dying  right. 

Stood,  as  Sir  Galahad  pure,  Sir  Lance- 
lot brave, 
The  quick,  indignant  fires 

Flushing  his  pale  brow  from  the  passion- 
ate mind 

No  strength   could   quell,   no  sophistry 
could  bind, 

Until  that  moment,  big  with  mystic  doom 
( Whose  issue  sent 

O'er  the  long  wastes  of  half  a  conti- 
nent 

Electric  shudders  through  the  deepening 
gloom), 

*This  Ode  was  originally  written  to  be  deliv- 
ered before  a  Southern  patriotic  association. 


When  in  his  knightly  glory  •'  Stonewall  " 
fell. 

And  all  our  hearts  sank  with  him ;  for  we 
knew 

Our  staff,  our  bulwark  broken,  the  fine 
clew 

To  freedom  snapped,  his  hands  had 
held  alone, 

Through  all  the  storms  of  battle  over- 
blown, — 

Lost,  buried,  mouldering  in  our  hero's 
grave. 

O  soul !  so  simple,  yet  sublime ! 
With  faith  as  large,  and  mild 
As    that    of    some    benignant,    trustful 

child, 
Who  mounts  to  heaven  on  bright,  ethe- 
real stairs 
Of  tender-worded  prayers,  — 
Yet   strong  as  if   a   Titan's  force  were 

there 
To  rise,  to  act,  to  suffer,  and  to  dare,  — 

O  soul !  that  on  our  time 
Wrought,  in  the  calm  magnificence  of 

power 
To  ends  so  noble,  that  an  antique  light 
Of  grace  and  virtue  streamed  along  thy 
way, 
Until  the  direst  hour 
Of  carnage  caught  from  that  immaculate 
ray 
A  consecration,  and  a  sanctity! 
Thou  art  not  dead,  thou  nevermore  canst 
die, 
But  wide  and  far, 
Where'er  on  Christian  realms  the  morn- 
ing star 
Flames    round    the    spires    that    tower 
towards  the  sky.  — 
Thy  name,  a  household  word, 
In   cottage    homes,   by  palace  walls,  is 

heard, 
Breathed   with  low  murmurs,   reveren- 
tially ! 

'Even  as   I   raise  this  faltering  song  to 

one, 
Who  now  beyond  the  empires  of  the  sun, 


84 


POEMS    OF   THE    WAR. 


Looks  down  perchance  upon  our  mourn- 
ful sphere. 
With  the  deep  pity  of  seraphic  eyes, 
Fancy  unveils  the  future,  and  I  see 
Millions  on  millions,  as  year  follows  year, 
Gather  around  our  warrior's  place  of  rest 
In  the  green  shadows  of  Virginian  hills ; 
Not  with  the  glow  of  martial  blazonry, 
With  trump  and  muffled  drum, 
Those  pilgrim  millions  come, 
But  with   bowed   heads,   and   measured 

footsteps  slow, 
As   those  who   near  the   presence  of  a 

shrine. 
And  feel  an  air  diviney^ 
All  round  about  them  blandly,  sweetly 

blow. 
While  like  dream-music  the  faint  fall  of 

rills. 
Lapsing  from  steep  to  steep, 
The  wood-dove   'plaining  in  her  covert 

deep, 
And  the  long  whisperings  of  the  ghostly 

pine 
(Like  ocean-breathings  borne  from  tides- 

of  sleep). 
With  every  varied  melody  expressed 
In  Nature's  score  of  solemn  harmonies, 
Blends   with   a   feeling  in   the  reverent 

breast 
Which   cannot   find   a   voice   in  mortal 

speech, 
So  deep,  so  deep  it  lies  beyond  the  reach 
Of    stammering    words,  —  the    pilgrims 

only  know 
That  slumbering,   O!   so  calmly  there, 

below 
The  dewy  grass,  the  melancholy  trees, 

Moulders  the  dust  of  him. 
By  whose  crystalline  fame,  earth's  scar- 
let pomps  grow  dim, 
The  crowned  heir 
Of  two  majestic  immortalities, 
That  which  is  earthly,  and  yet  scarce  of 

earth, 
Whose  fruitful  seeds 
Were    his    own    grand,    self-sacrificing 

deeds, 
And  that  whose  awful  birth 


Flowered   into   instant  perfectness  sub- 
lime, 
When  done  with  toil  and  time, 
He  shook  from  off  the  raiments  of  his 

soul, 
The  weary  conflict's  desecrating  dust, 
For    stern    reveilles,   heard   the    angels 

sing, 
For  battle  turmoils  found  eternal  calm. 
Laid  down  his  sinless  sword  to  clasp  the 

palm, 
And  where   vast   heavenly   organ-notes 

outroll 
Melodious  thunders,  'mid   the  rush   of 

wing. 
And  flash  of  plume  celestial,  paused  in 

peace, 
A  rapture  of  ineffable  release 
To  know  the  long  fruition  of  the  just! 


SONNETS. 


OX    THE     CHIVALRY    OF    THE     PRESENT 
TIME. 

Ah!  foolish  souls  and  false!   who  loudly 

cried 
"  True   chivalry  no   longer  breathes   in 

time." 
Look  round  us  now;  how  wondrous,  how 

sublime 
The  heroic  lives   we  witness;  far  and 

wide, 
Stern  vows  by  sterner  deeds  are  justified; 
Self     abnegation,     calmness,     courage. 

power, 
Sway   with   a  rule   august,  our  stormy 

hour. 
Wherein  the  loftiest  hearts  have  wrought 

and  died  — 
Wrought    grandly,    and    died    smiling. 

Thus,  oh  God, 
From  tears,  and  blood,  and  anguish,  thou 

hast  brought 
The  ennobling  act,  the  faith-sustaining 

thought  — 
'Till  in  the  marvellous  present,  one  may 

see 


SONNETS. 


85 


A  mighty  stage,  by  knight  and  patriots 

trod, 
Who  had  not  shunned  earth's  haughtiest 

chivalry. 


ELLIOTT  IN   FORT  SUMTER. 

And  high  amongst  these  chiefs  of  iron 

grain, 
Large-statured  natures,  souls  of  Spartan 

mien, 
Superbly  brave,  inflexibly  serene, 
Man  of  the  stalwart  hope,  the  sleepless 

brain. 
Well  dost  thou  guard  our  fortress  by  the 

main ! 
And    what,   though    inch  by   inch    old 

Sumter  falls, 
There's   not  a  stone  that  forms  those 

sacred  walls, 
But  holds    a  tongue,   which   shall  not 

speak  in  vain ! 
A  tongue  that  tells  of  such  heroic  mood, 
Such  nerved  endurance,  such  immaculate 

will, 
That  after  times  shall  hearken  and  grow 

still, 
With  breathless  admiration,  and  on  thee 
(Whose  stern  resolve  our  glorious  cause 

made  good). 
Confer  an  antique  immortality! 


OUR  MARTYRS. 

I  am  sitting  alone  and  weary, 

By  the  hearth  of  my  darkened  room, 
And  the  low  wind's  miserere, 

Makes  sadder  the  midnight  gloom. 
"  There's  a  nameless  terror  nigh  me — 

There's  a  phantom  spell  on  the  air. 
And  methinks,  that  the  dead  glide  by  me, 

And  the  breath  of  the  grave's  in  my 
hair!" 

'Tis  a  vision  of  ghastly  faces, 
All  pallid  and  worn  with  pain, 

Where  the  splendor  of  manful  graces 
Shines  dim  thro'  a  scarlet  rain:  — 


In  a  wild  and  weird  procession 
They  sweep  by  my  startled  eyes, 

And  stern  with  their  Fate's  fruition, 
Seem  melting  in  blood-red  skies. 

Have  they  come  from  the  shores  super- 
nal; 
Have  they  passed   from   the    spirit's 
goal, 
'Neath  the  veil  of  the  life  eternal 

To  dawn  on  my  shrinking  soul  ? 
Have  they  turned    from    the    choiring 
angels, 
Aghast  at  the  woe  and  dearth, 
That  war  with  his  dark  evangels 
Hath  wrought  in  the  loved  of  earth '? 

Tain  dream !  amid  far-off  mountains 

They  lie  where  the  dew  mists  weep, 
And  the  murmur  of  mournful  fountains 

Breathes  over  their  painless  sleep; 
On  the  breast  of  the  lonely  meadows 

Safe,  safe,  from  the  despot's  will, 
They  rest  in  the  starlit  shadows, 

And  their  brows  are  white  and  still, 

Alas!  for  our  heroes  perished! 

Cut  down  at  their  golden  prime, 
With  the  luminous  hopes  they  cherished. 

On  the  height  of  their  faith  sublime! 
For  them  is  the  voice  of  wailing 

And  the  sweet  blush-rose  departs. 
From  the  cheeks  of  the  maidens  paling 

O'er  the  wreck  of  their  broken  hearts. 

And  alas!  for  the  vanished  glory 

Of  a  thousand  household  spells! 
And  alas !  for  the  tearful  story 

Of  the  spirit's  fond  farewells! 
By  the  flood,  on  the  field,  in  the  forest, 

Our  bravest  have  yielded  breath, 
Yet  the   shafts   that  have   smitten  the 
sorest, 

Were  launched  by  a  viewless  death. 

Oh,  Thou!  that  hast  charms  of  healing, 
Descend  on  a  widowed  land, 

And  bind  o'er  the  wounds  of  feeling, 
The  balms  of  thy  mystic  hand ; 


86 


FOE  MS    OF  THE    WAR. 


Till  the  lives  that  lament  and  languish, 

Renewed  by  a  touch  divine, 
From  the  depths  of  their  mortal  anguish, 

May  rise  to  the  calm  of  Thine. 


FORGOTTEN. 

Forgotten!    Can    it    be    a    few  swift 
rounds 
Of  Time's  great  chariot  wheels  have 
crushed  to  naught 

The  memory  of  those  fearful  sights  and 
sounds. 
With  speechless  misery  fraught  — 

Wherethro'  we  hope  to  gain  the  Hespe- 
rian height, 

Where  Freedom  smiles  in  light  ? 

Forgotten !  scarce  have  two  dim  autumns 

veiled 
With  merciful  mist  those  dreary  burial 

sods, 
Whose  coldness  (when  the  high-strung 

pulses  failed, 
Of  men  who  strove  like  gods) 
Wrapped  in  a  sanguine  fold  of  senseless 

dust 
Dead  hearts  and  perished  trust! 

Forgotten!    While   in  far-off  woodland 
dell, 
By  lonely  mountain  tarn  and  murmur- 
ing stream. 
Bereaved  hearts  with  sorrowful  passion 
swell  — 
Their  lives  one  ghastly  dream 
Of  hope  outweariedand  betrayed  desire, 
And  anguish  crowned  with  fire! 

Forgotten!    while   our  manhood  cursed 

with  chains, 
And  pilloried  high  for  all  the  world  to 

view, 
Writhes  in  its  fierce,  intolerable  pains, 


Decked  with  dull  wreaths  of  rue, 
And   shedding  blood  for    tears,   hands 

waled  with  scars, 
Lifts  to  the  dumb,  cold  stars! 

Forgotten!  Can  the  dancer's  jocund  feet 
Flash  o'er  a  charnel-vault,  and  maid- 
ens fair 
Bend  the  white  lustre  of  their  eyelids 
sweet, 
Love-weighed,  so  nigh  despair. 
Its   ice-cold   breath   must    freeze    their 

blushing  brows, 
And  hush  love's  tremulous  vows  ? 

Forgotten!  Nay:   but   all   the  songs  we 
sing 
Hold  under-burdens,  wailing  chords  of 
woe ; 
Our  lightest  laughters  sound  with  hollow 
ring. 
Our  bright  wit's  freest  flow, 
Quavers  to  sudden  silence  of  affright, 
Touched  by  an  untold  blight! 

Forgotten !  Xo !  we  cannot  all  forget. 
Or,  when  we  do,  farewell  to  Honor's 
face, 
To  Hope's  sweet  tendance,  Valor's  un- 
paid debt. 
And  every  noblest  Grace, 
Which,  nursed  in  Love,  might  still  be- 
nignly bloom 
Above  a  nation's  tomb ! 

Forgotten!  Tho'  a  thousand  years  should 
pass, 
Methinks  our  air  will  throb  with  mem- 
ory's thrills, 

A  conscious  grief  weigh  down  the  falter- 
ing grass, 
A  pathos  shroud  the  hills, 

Waves   roll  lamenting,  autumn   sunsets 
yearn 

For  the  old  time's  return! 


LEGENDS    AND    LYRICS. 


LEGENDS    AND    LYRICS. 


1865-1872. 


DA  PHLES. 
AN   ARGIVE   STORY. 

Oxce    on   the  throne  of    Argos   sat  & 

maid, 
Daphles  the  fair;   serene  and  unafraid 
She  ruled  her  realm,  for  the  rough  folk 

were  brought 
To  worship  one  they  deemed   divinely 

wrought 
In    beauty    and    mild    graciousness    of 

heart : 
Nobles  and  courtiers,  too,  espoused  her 

part, 
So  that  the  sweet  young  face  all  thronged 

to  see, 
Glanced  from  her  throne-room's  silken 

canopy 
(Broidered    with    leaves,    and    many    a 

snow-white  dove), 
Eosily  conscious  of  her  people's  love. 
Only  the  chief  of  a  far  frontier  clan, 
A  haughty,  bold,  ambitious  nobleman, 
By  law  her  vassal,  but  self-sworn  to  be 
From  subject-tithe   and    tribute   boldly 

free, 
And  scorning  most  this  weak  girl-sover- 
eign's reign, 
Now  from  the  mountain  fastness  to  the 

plain 
Summoned    his   savage    legions  to   the 

fight,  — 
Wherein  he  hoped  to  wrench  the  imperial 

might 
From  Daphles,  and   confirm  his   claim 

thereto. 
But  Doracles,  the  insurgent  chief,  could 

know 


Naught  of  the  secret  charm,  the  subtle 

stress 
Of  beauty  wed  to  warm  unselfishness, 
Which,  in  her  hour  of  trial,  wrapped  the 

Queen 
Safely  apart  in  golden  air  serene 
Of    deep  devotion,   and  fond    faith  of 

those 
The  steadfast  hearts  betwixt  her  and  her 

foes. 
The  oldest  courtier,   schooled  in  state- 
craft guile, 
Some  loyal  fire  at  her  entrancing  smile 
Felt  strangely  kindled  in  his  outworn 

soul ; 
Far  more  the   warrior  youths  her  soft 

control 
Moulded  to  noble  deeds,  till  all  the  land, 
Aroused   at  Love's   and  Honor's   joint 

command, 
Bristled  with  steel  and  rang  with  sounds 

of  war. 

Still  rashly  trusting  in  his  fortunate  star, 

This  arrogant  thrall  who  fain  would 
grasp  a  crown, 

Backed  by  half -barbarous  hordes, 
inarched  swiftly  down 

'Twixt  the  hill  ramparts  and  the  West- 
ern Sea. 

First,  blazing  homesteads  greet  him, 
whence  did  flee 

The  frightened  hinds  through  fires  them- 
selves had  lit 

'Mid  the  ripe  grain,  lest  foes  should  reap 
of  it; 

Or  here  and  there,  some  groups  of  aged 
folk, 


90 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Women  and  men  bent  down  beneath  the 

yoke 
Of  cruel  years  and  babbling  idiot  speech. 
"Methinks,"  cried  Doracles,  "our  arms 

will  reach 
The  realm' s  unshielded  heart ;  for  lo !  the 

breatb, 
The  mere  hot  fume  of   rapine   and   of 

death 
Which  flames  before  our  legions  like  a 

blight 
Withers    this  people's  valor  and  their 

might." 

The  fifes  played  shriller;  the  wild 
trumpet's  blast 

Smote  the  great  host  and  thrilled  them 
as  it  passed ; 

While  clashing  shields,  and  spears  which 
caught  the  morn, 

And  splendid  banners  in  strong  hands 
upborne, 

And  plumed  helms,  and  steeds  of  match- 
less race, 

And  in  the  van  that  clear,  keen  eagle 
face 

Of  Doracles,  firm  set  on  shoulders  tall, 

Squared  like  a  rock,  and  towering  o'er 
them  all, 

With  all  the  pomp  and  swell  of  martial 
strife, 

Woke  the  burnt  plains  and  bleak  de- 
files to  life. 

So  phalanx  after  phalanx  glittering  filed 

Firm  to  the  front:  their  haughty  leader 
smiled 

To  see  with  what  a  bold  and  buoyant  air 

The  lowliest  footman  marched  before 
him  there. 

Till  his  proud  head  he  lifted  to  the  sun, 

And  his  heart  leaped  as  at  a  victory  won 

That  self-same  hour,  o'er  which  bright- 
hovering  shone 

The  steadfast  image  of  an  ivory  throne. 

But  the  Queen's  host  by  skilful  cham- 
pions led, 

Its  powers  meanwhile  concentred  to  a 
head, 


Lay,    an    embattled    force    with    wary 

eye, 
Eeady  to  ward  or  strike  whene'er  the 

cry 
Of  coming  foemen  on  their  ears  should 

fall, 
Nigh  the  huge  towers  which  guard  the 

capital. 

Not  long  their  watch  :  one  bluff  October 

day, 
There  rose  a  blare  of  trumpets  far  away, 
And   sound   of   thronging  hoofs  which 

muffled  came, 
Borne  on  the  wind,  like  the  dull  noise  of 

flame 
Half  stifled  in  dense  woodlands;   then 

the  wings 
Of  the  Queen' s  host,  as  each  swift  section 

flings 
The  imperial  banner  proudly  fluttering 

out, 
Spread  from  the  royal  centre.     Hark !  a 

shout, 
As  from  those  thousand  hearts  in  one 

great  soul 
Sublimely  fused,  rose   thunder-deep,  to 

roll, 
In  wild  acclaim,  far  down  the  quivering- 
van; 
And  wilder  still  the  heroic  tumult  ran 
From  front  to  rear,  when  through  her 

palace  gate, 
Daphles,  in  unaccustomed  martial  state, 
A  keen  spear  shimmering  in  its  silver 

hold, 
And  on  her  brow  the  Argive  crown  of 

gold. 
Flashed  like  a  sunbeam  on  her  warriors' 

sight. 
Girt  by  her  generals,  on  a  neighboring 

height 
She  reined  her  Lybian  courser,  while  the 

aii- 
Played   with  the   bright   waves  of  her 

meteor  hair, 
And  on  her  lovely  April  face  the  tide 
Of    varied    feeling  —  now    a    jubilant 

pride 


DAPHLES. 


91 


In  those  strong  arms  and  stronger  hearts 

While   the   chained   rebels   passed    her 

below, 

worn  and  sore. 

And  now  a  prescient  fear  did  ebh  and 

With  ghastly  wounds,  and  shivering  in 

flow, 

their  gore. 

Its   sensitive   heaven  transforming  mo- 

But when,  untamed,  uncowed,  in  "midst 

mently. 

of  these. 

But  soon  the  foeman's  cohorts,  like  a 

The  grand,  defiant  form  of  Doracles 

sea, 

Rose   like   a  god  discrowned,  her  wan 

With  waves  of  steel,  and  foam  of  snow- 

cheeks  flushed, 

white  plumes, 

And  through  her  heart  a  quick,  hot  tor- 

Slowly   emerged    from    out    the    forest 

rent  rushed 

glooms, 

Of  undefined,  mysterious  sympathy. 

In  splendid  pomp  and  antique  pageantry. 

Viewing  that  haughty  brow,  that  unbent 

An    ominous    pause!      And    then    the 

knee, 

trumpets  high 

•"O  kingly  head!"    she  thought,  "too 

Sounded  the  terrible  onset,  and  the  field 

well  I  know 

Rocked   as    with    earthquake,  and    the 

How  bitter-keen  to  him  the  signal  blow 

thick  air  reeled 

This  day  hath  dealt !     0  kingly  resolute 

With  clangors  fierce  from  echoing  hill  to 

eyes, 

hill. 

Shrining  the  sov'ran  soul!  'twere  surely 

Bloody  but  brief  the  contest!    All  the 

wise 
To  change  their  glance  of  cold  vindictive 

skill 

gloom 

Of  Doracles  against  the  steadfast  will 

To  grateful  light,  and  make  what  seemed 

Planted  by  love  in  faithful  hearts  that 

a  doom 

day 

Heavy   as   death,   the   clouded    path  to 

Frothed  like  an  idle  tide  that  slips  away 

fame, 

From  granite  walls !    His  knights  their 

Lordship,  and  honor!"'     Ah,  but  pity 

furious  blows 

came 

Discharged    on    what    seemed    statues 

To  crown    admiring    kindness   with  a 

whose  repose 

flame 

Was  iron,  or  their  fated  coursers  hurled 

Of  subtler  life ;   for  he,  the  vanquished 

On  spears  unbent  as  bases  of  a  world ! 

one, 

Meanwhile  the  whole  dread  scene   did 

On  whom  that  day  his  fate's  malignant 

Daphles  view 

sun 

With    anguished,     tearless    eyes.     But 

Had  set   in  storms,   that  night  would 

when  she  knew 

slumber,  kissed 

The  victory  hers,  down   the  hill-slopes 

By  a  fair    phantom  girt  with    golden 

she  urged 

mist. 

Her  restless  steed,  where  still  but  faintly 

A  new-born   delicate   love,    but    dimly 

surged 

guessed 

The  last  worn  waves  of  tumult;   there 

Even  in  the  pure  depths  of  the  maiden 

her  bauds 

breast. 

Of  conquering  captains  she  with  fervent 

Whence  the  sweet  sylph  had  'scaped  her 

hands 

unaware. 

And   o'erfraught   swelling     breast    did 

But   when    the    evening    silence    drew 

proudly  greet; 

anear, 

Yet  her  pale  face  was  touched  with  pity 

And  round  about  the  borders  of  the 

sweet 

world 

92 


LEGENDS   AXD   LYRICS. 


The  second  night  since  that  great  con- 
test furled 

Its  brooding  shades,  the  young  Queen, 
all  alone, 


Or    comprehend    her    mercy's    cordial 

scope : 
His  soid  had  shrunk  too  low  for  dreams 

of  hope, 


Paused  by  the  dungeon  floor  whereon       Such  swift  misfortunes  smote  him:  still. 


were  thrown. 
At  listless  length,  the  limbs  of  Doracles. 
"How.  how.*'  she  murmured,  •'may   I 

best  appease 
His  stricken  pride,  or   touch  to  tender 

calm 
His  fevered  honor  ?  with  what  healing 

balm 
Allay  the   smart  wherewith    his    spirit 

groans  ?  " 
Perplexed,  and  yearning,  on  the  dismal 

stones 


when  all 

The  Queen's  fair  meaning  on  his  mind 
did  fall, 

The  locked  and  frozen  sternness  of  his 
look 

Broke  up,  as  breaks  the  death-cold  win- 
try brook 

Its  icy  spell  at  noonday :  yet  his  face 

Was  lighted  not  by  thankful,  reverent 
grace, 

But  flashed  an  evil  triumph  where  he 
stood 


Without   the   prison   door  she    walked    ,   Spurning  his  unloosed  chains.     In  such 


apart. 


base  mood, 


Love,  doubt,  and  shame,  all   struggling    i   One  eager  foot  pressed  on  the  dungeon 


in  her  heart, 
Till  the  large  flood  of  mingled  love  and 
woe 


stair, 
What   terms,"'  he   asked,   i-0  Queen, 
demand" st  thou  here  ? 


Eose  to  her  snowy  eyelids  and  did  flow       I    pledge    thee    faith!"       Silent    were 


In  soft  refreshing  tears  like  spring-tide 
showers : 


Daphles"  lips. 
And  all  her  gentle  hopes  by  swift  eclipse 


Then,  bright  and  blushing  as  the  moss-      Were  darkened.     With  a  deathly  smile 


rose  bowers 


she  signed 


Of  dewy  May.  she  pushed  the  huge  grate    ,    The  chief  farewell,  as  one  who  scorned 


tack, 


to  bind 


And    through    the    dusky  glooms,   the   I   Her  mercy  with  set  terms.      He  turned 


shadows  black 


to  go, 


Dawned  fjlowindv!     Xext  for  a  moment   '   Self-centred,  callous,  dreaming  not  how 


she 
Stood  in  a  timid,  strange  uncertainty. 
Changing  from  rosy  red  to  deathly  white ; 


low 
Her  heart  had  sunk  at  each  cold,  shallow 
word 


When,   as   a  Queen  sustained    by  true       With  which   his  barren  nature,  faintly 


love's  right, 


stirred 


She  spake  in  mild.   pure,  steadfastness       By  ruth,  or  love,  or  pardon,  dared  repay 
ofsoul:  Her  matchless  mercy.    On  his  unchecked 

"I  come.   O  Doracles.  with    no   mean 
dole 

Of  transient  pity,  but  to  show  thee  how 


He  turned  to  go.  when,  with  one  shud- 
dering sob. 


Thy  mistress  would   exalt    the   abased       And     deep-drawn,      plaintive      breath. 


brow 


which  seemed  to  rob 


Of  one  who  knows  her  not!"     There-      Life   of   its  last  dear  hope,  the   Queen 


with  she  freed 


sank  down. 


His  fettered  limbs.or  yet  his  brain  could       Wrapped  in  a  death-like  trance.     With 


heed 


-alien  frown. 


DAPHLEt 


93 


And  many  a  muttered  oath,  he  raised 

her  form, 
Frail  now  as  some  pale  lily  by  the  storm 
Wind-blown  and  beaten;  for  at  woman's 

love 
He  could  but  vaguely  guess,  and  no  poor 

dove 
Pierced  by  the  woodman's  shaft  was  less 

to  him 
Than   this   fair  spirit  struggling  in  the 

dim 
And  tortured  twilight  of  unshared  de- 
sire ; 
Nor  could  he  part  the  pure  romantic  fire 
Of  such  high  passion  from  the  lukewarm 

flame 
That  feebly  burns  in  sordid  hearts  and 

tame, 
Not  of  love's  heat,  but  vacant  flattery's 

born, 
To  feed  his  pride,  yet   stir  the  latent 

scorn 
Of  that  rough  manhood  such  hard  na- 
tures know. 
Waked  from  her  trance,  with  wandering 

eyes  and  slow 
The  Queen  looked  round,  but  dimly  con- 
scious yet, 
Until  at  last  her  faltering  glance  was  set 
On  Doracles,  to  whom  —  that  he  might 

see 
How  a  soft  ruth  to  love's  intensity 
Had  strangely  grown  —  she  laid  her  deep 

heart  bare : 
Then,  with  a  sweet  but  nobly  queen-like 

air, 
She  said,  "  O  Doracles,  in  just  return 
For  all  this  love   and  pity,  which  did 

yearn 
To  lift  thee  fallen,  and  to  find  thee,  lost, 
And   slowly  sickening  underneath   the 

frost 
Of  bleak  despair,  I  well  might  ask  of 

thee 
Thy  heart,  with  all  its  rarest  freight  in 

fee, 
Save  that  I  feel  my  virgin  fame  and  life 
Must   coimt  as   pure,   when  thou   hast 

made  me  wife, 


Though  but  a  wife  in  state   and  name 

alone. 
Behold,    O    chief!    I    proffer,    too,    my 

throne, 
Not    as    thy  freedom's    sole    condition 

given, 
But    that    men's     eyes     and    scornful 

thoughts  be  driven 
Away   from   what   in   me  may  seem  as 

ill, 
If  —  if  —  perchance,  thou  shouldst  reject 

me  still." 
At  which  hard  word  she  droops  her  head, 

and  sighs, 
While  patient  tears  bedew  her  downcast 

eyes. 

Now,  with  sly  semblance  of  a  soul  at 
ease, 

Her  liberal  proffer  crafty  Doracles 

Freely  embraced.  They  passed  the 
prison-bound, 

And  that  same  day  with  silver-ringing 
sound 

Of  trump  and  cymbal,  the  state  heralds 
cried 

Abroad  through  all  the  city,  far  and 
wide, 

The  Queen's  vast  pardon;  whereupon 
her  court,  — 

Nobles  and  dames, — each  quaintly  gor- 
geous sport, 

Known  in  the  old  time,  bold  or  debon- 
air, 

With  feasts,  and  mimic  strifes,  and  pa- 
geants rare, 

Did  hold  in  honor  of  their  sovereign's 
choice ; 

A  choice  none  there  would  question! 
Not  a  voice, 

Gentle  or  simple,  but  was  raised  to  bless, 

And  pray  the  kindly  gods  for  happiness 

And  peace  on  both!  Meanwhile  the 
thrall  made  king, 

Albeit  a  secret  anger  still  would  wring 

His  thankless  soul,  in  princely  fashion 
took 

The  general  homage,  nor  by  word  or 
look 


94 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Betrayed    the     festering     consciousness 

within: 
So  gracious  seemed  he,  Dapliles'  hopes 

begin 
To  wake,  and  whisper  fond,  sweet,  fool- 
ish words 
Close  to  her  heart,  that   nutters    like  a 

bird' s 
Wooed   in    the    spring-dawn:    yet,  alas! 

alas! 
For  joy  that  dies,  and  dreamy  hopes  that 

pass 
To  nothingness!     In  'midst  of  this,  her 

trust, 
Came  a  swift  blow  which  smote  her  to 

the  dust ; 
News  that  her  ingrate  love  had  basely 

fled. 
Whither  none  knew.      Scarce  had  this 

shaft  been  sped 
From  fate's  unerring  bow,  than   swift 

again 
Hurtled   a  second   steeped   in  poisoned 

pain; 
For  now   the   whole   dark   truth    came 

sternly  out : 
Leagued  with  her  bitterest  foes,  a  savage 

rout 
Of  mountain-robbers   o'er  the    frontier 

land, 
He  unto  whom  she  proffered  heart  and 

hand. 
Kingdom    and    crown,    had    bared    his 

treacherous  blade, 
And  of  the  great  and  just  gods  unafraid, 
Upreared  his  standard  'neath  the  blood- 
red  star, 
And   raised   once    more    the    incarnate 

curse  of  war ! 
So  from  that  day  all  gladness  left  the 

heart 
Of  broken   Dapliles;    she   would    muse 

apart 
From  court  and  friends,  her  once  blithe 

footsteps  slow, 
Her  once  proud  head  bowed  down,  and 

such  wild  woe 
Couched  in  the  clouded  depths  of  mourn- 
ful eyes 


That  few  could  mark  her  misery  but 
with  sighs 

Deep  almost  as  her  own.  At  last,  she 
wrote 

(For  still  her  soul  hailed,  watery  and  re- 
mote. 

One  beam  of  hope)  a  missive  tender- 
sweet. 

Charmed  with  such  pathos,  to  her  deli- 
cate feet 

It  might  have  lured  a  spirit,  nigh  to 
death, 

And  straight  imbued  with  warm  compas- 
sionate breath 

A  heart  as  cold  as  spires  of  Arctic 
ice! 

Ah,  futile  hope!  Ah,  fond  and  vain  de- 
vice ! 

Not  all  the  pleading  eloquence  of  wrong. 

Veiling  its  wounds,  and  golden-soft  as 

song- 
Trilled   by  the   brown   Sicilian  nightin- 
gales, 

In  dusky  nooks  of  melancholy  vales, 

Could  melt  the  granite  will  of  Doracles. 

Each  tender  line  she  sent  him  did  but 
tease 

And  sting  his  obdurate  temper  into 
hate, 

As  if  the  deep  harmonious  terms  that 
wait 

On  truest  love,  were  wasp-like,  poisoned 
things : 

Her  timorous  hints,  her  sweet  imagin- 
ings, 

Far  thoughts,  and  dreams  evanishing, 
but  high. 

Filled  with  the  maiden  dews  of  sanctity, 

He  crushed,  as  one  might  crush  in  mad- 
dened hours 

The  fairest  of  the  sisterhood  of  flowers ; 

No  further  answer  made  he  than  could 
be 

Couched  in  brief  terms  of  cold  discourt- 
esy. 

Holding  all  love  —  the  noblest  love  on 
earth  — 

Of  lesser  moment  than  an  insect's  birth, 


DAPHLES. 


95 


Buzzing  its  life  out  'twixt  the  dawn  and 

dark. 
That  letter  stifled  the  last  healthful  spark 
Of  the  Queen's  flickering  reason,  turned 

her  wit 
To  wild  and  errant  courses,  sadly  lit 
By  wandering  stars,  and  orbs  of  fantasy. 
Deeming  that  she  full  soon  must  sink 

and  die, 
Daphles.  still  true  to  that  one  dominant 

thought 
And   firm  affection  which  such  ill  had 

brought, 
Summoned  her  learned  scribes  and  bade 

tbem  draw 
After  strict  form  and  precedents  of  law, 
Her  solemn  testament ;  whereby  she  gave 
Her  throne   to  Doracles,  whene'er  the 

grave 
Closed  o'er  her  broken  heart  and  hum- 
bled head. 
But  now  her  chiefs  and  nobles,  hard  be- 
stead 
By  circumstance,   and    dreading    much 

lest  he, 
The  renegade,  and  rebel,  who  did  flee 
From  love  to   league  with   license,  yet 

should  sway 
The  honored  Argive  sceptre,  on  a  day 
Called  forth  to  solemn  council  and  debate 
Lords,  liegemen,  ministers,  to  save  the 

state 
From  threatened  tyranny  and   upstart 

rule : 
Thereto  the  wan  Queen,  powerless  now 

to  school 
Features  or  mind  to  subjugation  meet, 
Came  weakly  tottering ;  in  her  lofty  seat 
She  sank  bewildered,  listless;  all  could 

mark 
Beneath   her  languid  eyes  the  hollows 

dark. 
And  —  save  that  sometimes  as  she  slowly 

turned 
Her   wasted    form,    the    fires    of    fever 

burned, 
Death's  prescient  blazon,  on  each  sunken 

cheek  — 
Her  face  was  pallid  as  a  cold  white  streak 


Of  wintiy  moonlight  on  Siberian  snows; 
Her  quivering    mouth    and    chill    con- 
tracted brows 
Bespoke  an  inward  torture,  while  from 

all 
The  shrewd  debate  within  that  council 

hall 
Her   dim    thoughts   wandered  vaguely, 

lost  and  dumb. 
But  when  her  pitying  maidens  round  her 

come, 
And  gently  strive  on  her  drooped  head  to 

place 
The  self-same  laurel  garland  which  did 

grace 
Her  warm,  white  temples  on  that  morn 

of  strife 
And  woeful  victory,  her  sick  brain  seemed 

rife 
Once  more  with  memories;  in  her  hand 

she  pressed 
The    half-dead    wreath,    and    o'er    her 

flowing  vest 
Strewed  the  plucked  leaves  those  aimless 

ringers  tore 
Unwittingly;     which    on     the    marble 

floor, 
Down  fluttering,  one  by  one,  lay  blurred 

and  dead, 
Like  the  sere  hopes  her  withered  heart 

had  shed, 
Smitten  of  love;  for  now  she  touched 

the  close 
Of  the  soul's  dreamy  autumn,  and  the 

snows 
Of  winter  soon  would  clasp  her  eyelids 

cold. 
Yea,  soon,  too  soon!  for  while  her  fin- 
gers fold 
The  garlan  1  loosely,  and  in  fitful  grief 
She  still  would  strip  the  circlet,  leaf  by 

leaf. 
Till  now  one-half  the  wreath  is  plucked 

and  bare, 
She  lifts  her  dim  eyes,  hearkening,  as 

though  'ware 
Of  mystic  voices  calling  on  her  name; 
Therewith  her  cheek,  whence  the  quick, 

fevere  1  flame 


96 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Had    quite  pulsed    out,   with   one   last 

quiver,  she 
Drops  on  the  cushioned  dais,  passively; 
For  death,  more  kind  than  love,  hath 

brought  her  peace. 

Long  was  it  ere  her  stricken  realm  could 

cease 
To  mourn  for  Dap  hies;  yet  her  burial 

rites, 
With    all    their  mournful  pomp,   their 

sombre  sights 
Funereal,  scarce  were  passed,  when  her 

last  will, 
Despite  its  humbling  terms,  which  ran- 
kled still 
In  all  men's  minds,  her  faithful  courtiers 

sent, 
With  news   of    that   most  sudden,  sad 

event 
Which  made  him  king,  to  restless  Dor- 

acles. 
What  recked  he  then  that  to  its  bitterest 

lees 
A  pure  young  soul  had  quaffed  of  mis- 
ery's cup, 
And    after,  death's?     "My    star,"    he 

thought,  "  flames  iui, 
Fronting  the  heights  of  empire!    All  is 

well!" 
Thereon,   impelled    by   keen    desire    to 

dwell 
In  his  new  realm,  with  reckless  haste  he 

rode 
From  town  to  town,  till  now  the  grand 

abode. 
The  palace  of  the  royai  Argive  race, 
Did  rise  before  him  in  its  lofty  place, 
O'erlooking  leagues  of  golden  fields  and 

streams. 
Fair  hills   and   shadowy   vineyards,   by 

great  teams 
Of  laboring  oxen  rifled  morn  by  morn, 
Till  the  bared,  tremulous  branches  swung 

forlorn 
'Gainst  the  red  flush  of  autumn's  sunset 

sky. 
Housed  with  rich  state  therein,  full  re- 
gally 


The  king  his  sovereign  life  and  course 

began, 
Striving  at  one  swift  bound  to  reach  the 

van 
Of  princely  fame;  his  rare  magnificence 
Of    feasts,   shows,   pageants,   and  high 

splendors,  whence 
The  wondering  guests  all  dazzled  went 

their  way, 
Grew  to  a  world-wide  proverb  for  dis- 
play 
And  costly  lavishness.     Yet  one  there 

was 
O'er  whose  gray  head  these  days  of  pomp 

did  pass 
Like   purpling  shadows  o'er  the  faded 

grass : 
Wit  touched  him  not  to  smiles,  gay  mu- 
sic's flow 
Fell  powerless  on  his  closed  heart's  secret 

woe, 
While  at  their  feasts  silent  he  sat,  and 

grim. 
Ofttimes  the  king  a  cold  glance  cast  on 

him, 
As  one  who  marred  their  mirthful  rev- 
elry. 
And  in  the  boisterous  spring-tide  of  their 

glee 
Lose  like  a  boding  phantom !     More  and 

more 
He  felt  a  vague,  dim  trouble  at  the  core 
Of  his  rude  nature  stirred,  whene'er  he 

saw 
Phorbas  draw  near;  something  akin  to 

awe. 
If  not   to   dread,  for  this  old  man  did 

stand 
Chiefest  of   Daphles'  mourners   in    her 

land. 
As  chief  of  her  life's  friends,  ere  that 

black  doom 
Stole  from  her  heart  its  joy,  her  cheek 

its  bloom. 

Just  where  the  mellowed  rays  of  noon- 
day light 

Streamed  through  the  curtained  gloom, 
obscurely  bright, 


"  Leagues  of  golden  fields  and  streams, 
Fair  hills  and  shadowy  vineyards,  by  great  teams 
Of  laboring  oxen  rifled  morn  by  morn." 


DAPHLES. 


97 


Which  wrapped   the  great   art-galleries 

And  princely  wise  than  he  ?  Or  art  thou 

richly  round, 

bold 

There  hung,  'mid  many  a  stately  por- 

To deem  me  all  unworthy  to  behold 

trait,  bound 

My  brave  forerunner  ?  * '     Thereupon  he 

In  frames  of   costly   ivory,  carved   and 

knit 

wrought, 

His  rugged  brows,  the  while  his  soul  was 

A  picture,  which  the  king's  eyes  oft  had 

lit 

sought 

To  keen,  impatient  wrath.     With  trem- 

With anxious  wonder;  for  day  following 

bling  hands  — 

day 

But  not  for  fear  — Phorbas  unloosed  the 

Would  Phorbas,  mutely  sorrowing,  make 

bands, 

delay 

Studded   with  diamond    points,    which 

Going  or  coming  from  the  council-hall 

clasped  the  veil 

To   view  that  muffled   mystery   on  the 

Close  to  its  place.     The  startled  prince 

wall. 

grew  pale, 

Over  it  flowed  a  veil  of  silvery  hue, 

As  there,   in  all  her  fresh  young  grace, 

With  here  and  there  fine  threads  of  gold 

did  shine 

shot  through 

The  face  of  Daphles,  with   a  smile  di- 

The delicate  woof;  and  whoso  chanced 

vine, 

to  turn 

Into  arch  dimples  rippling  joyfully ! 

A  glance  thereon,  woidd  feel  his  spirit 

Some  faintly-pensive  memory  seemed  to 

burn 

vie 

To  pierce  the  jealous  veil  whose  folds 

With  deeper  feelings,  in  the  low,  cmick 

might  hide 

tone 

Some  priceless  marvel.     Now,  at  high 

Wherewith  the  king  spake,  whispering 

noontide 

to  his  own 

Of  one  calm  autumn  day,  the  king  again 

Half- wakened  heart,  — "  Certes,  it  could 

Met  Phorbas  —  his  worn  features  drawn 

not  be, 

with  pain, 

That  she,  who  owned  the  glorious  face  I 

And  in  his  eyes  the  sharp  salt-rheum  of 

see, 

age  — 

Bright   with  all  brightness  of  a  young 

Still  poring  on  the  picture!     "Thou  a 

delight, 

sage!" 

Yet  pined  and  withered  'neath  the  fatal 

Sneered  Doracles,   ';yet  idly  bent,  for- 

night 

sooth, 

Of    starless  grief!"     To  which,    '-Thy 

On  vaporing    fancies?"      Then,    more 

pardon,  sire," 

harsh,  ''The  truth! 

The  old   man   said,  "but  ere  my  life's 

The  truth,  old  man!    What  strong  spell 

low  fire 

drags  thee  here  ? 

Hath  quite  gone  out,  I  fain  would  free 

(Some  charm,  methinks,  'twixt  passion 

my  soul 

and  despair:) 

Of  that  which  long  hath  borne  me  care 

Morn  after  morn,  forcing  thine  eyes  to 

and  dole ; 

stray 

So,  sovereign  lord,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell ! '" 

O'er    yon    blank    mystery  ?      Prythee, 

And  therewithal  did  Phorbas    deem  it 

Phorbas,  say 

well 

What  image  lurks  beneath  that  glimmer- 

To show  how  Daphles'  darkened  life  did 

ing  shroud  '? 

wane  ; 

Perchance  the  last  king's  ?    Well!  am  I 

How  love,  first  touched  by  doubt,  soon 

less  proud 

changed  to  pain, 

98 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


And,  last,  blank  desolation,  whose  wild 

stress 
Wrecked   and   made   bare    lier    perfect 

loveliness, 
O'erwhelrning wit  with  beauty.    "Still," 

said  he, 
' '  O  sire !  to  her  last  hour  most  tenderly 
She  spake  of  thee,   her  twilight  reason 

set 
On  the  sole  thought,  'My  love  may  love 

me  yet  : 
For  man's  love  comes  with  knowledge, 

so  I  deem, 
Slow-hearted  man's!'    Ah,  heaven!  she 

could  not  dream, 
But  thy  name  filled  her  dreams.     "When 

madness  stole 
Like  a  dread  mist  about  her,  and  her 

soul, 
Wound    in   its   viewless   cerement-folds 

accursed " 

' '  Madness ! ' '  the  king  cried  in  a  sharp 

outburst 
Of  wild  amazement:  "madness!  /have 

known 
The  mad  impatience  of  a  will  o'ergrown. 
When    sternly    thwarted     in    its    fiery 

zeal. 
But  dreamed  not  how  these  fairy  creat- 
ures feel. 
These  soft,  frail-natured  women,  if,  per- 
chance. 
Love  turn  on  them  a  cold  or  lukewarm 

glance. 
Of  brief  denial!"     Then  the  impatient 

red, 
In  a  swift  flood,  —  but  not  of  anger,  — 

spread 
O'er  the  king's  face ;  convulsed  it  seemed, 

and  stern. 
But  when  from  garrulous  Phorbas  he  did 

learn 
How  the  queen's  laurel  wreath  half  bare 

became. 
The  hot  blood  ebbed,  and  o'er  its  waning 

flame 
Coursed  the   first  tear  his  warrior-soul 

had  shed. 
Nor  could  he  rouse  asrain  the  lustihead 


Of  ruder  thoughts,  but,  thickly  mutter- 
ing, laid 

On  the  fair  portrait  of  the  sovereign 
maid 

A  reverent  hand ;  from  'midst  the  painted 
dome 

Of  the  great  gallery  forth  he  bore  it 
home 

Unto  the  secret  chamber  of  his  rest; 

There  next  his  couch  he  placed  the  beau- 
teous guest; 

There  feasted  on  its  sweetness ;  and  since 
naught 

Of  public  import  now  did  claim  his 
thought, 

No  fierce  Avar  threatened,  no  shrewd  trea- 
ties pressed, 

Strangely  the  picture  mastered  him;  it 
grew, 

As  days,  then  weeks,  and  seasons,  o'er 
him  flew, 

A  part,  an  inmost  essence  of  all  life, 

Which  touched  to  joy  or  thrilled  to 
shuddering  strife 

The  soul's  deep-seated  issues:  yet,  at  last, 

Stronger  the  fierce  strife  waxed ;  the  bliss 
was  passed ; 

And,  wheresoe'er  the  king  went,  night 
or  day, 

One  haunting  phantom  barred  his 
doomed  way ! 

But  ere  he  reached  the  worst  wild  stage 

of  woe, 
Through  many  a  change  of  passion,  swift 

or  slow. 
The    king    passed    downward,   nearing 

treacherous  death ; 
And  thus  it  happed,  our  old-world  legend 

saith : 

The  more  he  gazed  on  Daphles'  blooming 

face, 
All  flushed  with  happy  youth  and  Hebe 

grace. 
The  more  her  marvellous  image  seemed 

alive; 
He  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw,  the  warm 

blood  strive, 


DAPHLES. 


99 


In  ruddier  tide,  with  conscious  hues  to 
dye 

Her  lovely  brow  and  swanlike  neck,  or 
vie 

With  Syrian  roses  on  her  cheeks  of 
flame ; 

The  more  he  gazed,  the  more  her  lips 
became 

Instinct  with  timorous  motion,  till  a 
sigh, 

New-born  of  honeyed  love  unwittingly, 

Seemed  hovering  like  a  murmurous  fairy- 
bee 

About  their  rich,  half-parted  comeli- 
ness : 

What  slight  breath  softly  stirs  the  truant 
tress, 

Which  like  a  waif  of  sunset  light  did 
rest 

In  wandering  golden  lustre  on  her 
breast  ? 

And  what  dear  thought  her  bosom  gra- 
ciously 

Heaves  into  gentle  billows,  like  a  sea 

Moon-kissed,  and  whispering  ?  Thus 
the  king  would  task 

Long  hours  with  doting  questions,  when 
the  mask 

Of  dull  state  forms  and  ceremonial 
play 

With  wearied  brain  and  hand  was  cast 
away, 

And  he  a  dead  maid's  crafty  image 
turned 

To  breathing  life,  and  blissful  love  that 
burned 

From  her  wild  pulses  and  fond  heart  to 
his, 

And  on  her  mouth  he  pressed  a  bride- 
groom's kiss. 

Then  the  sweet  spell  was  broken;  con- 
science spoke ; 

And  in  her  burning  depths  pale  memory 
woke. 

Even  in  that  gentle  shape  his  cold  self- 
will 

Had  strangely  turned,  and  wrought  him 
direful  ill; 


Distempered,    moody,   sometimes    nigh 

distraught 
With  ceaseless  pressure  of  one  harrow- 
ing thought, 
He  grew,  and  hapless  thrills  of  lonely 

pain ; 
Her  picture,  imaged   on  his  heart  and 

brain, 
Ruled  all  his  tides  of  being,  as  the  moon 
Draws  changeful  seas;  now  in   a   clear 

high  noon 
Of  memories  bitter-sweet  his  soul  would 

swim. 
Anon  to  sink  in  turbulent  gulfs  and  dim 
Of  wild  regret,  or  as  the  dead  to  lie 
Locked  in  a  mute,  life-withering  leth- 
argy. 
Creator  sweet  of  all  his  fortunes  high, 
Oh,  that  in  Hades  she  could  hear  his 

cry 
Remorseful,  and  come  back  in  pitying 

guise 
To  ease  his  grief  and  calm  his  tortured 

sighs ! 
A  thousand,  thousand   times  this  wild 

desire 
Would  wake,  and  surge  through  all  his 

veins  like  fire: 
Followed,   alas,  too  soon,  by  such  deep 

sense 
Of  powerless  will,  and  mortal  impotence, 
As  in  red  hurry  up  from  soul  to  cheeks 
Runs  rioting,  and  ever  harshly  seeks 
To  drag  them  into  gaunt,  gray  lines  of 

care ! 
Months  sped  eventless,  with  his   dark 

despair 
Grown  darker;  till,  one  sad  November 

morn, 
Set  to  the  rhythmic  wail  of  winds  for- 
lorn, 
They  found,  just  where  the  morning's 

shadowy  gloom 
Had  gathered    deepest  in  the    prince's 

room, 
His  prostrate  body,  cold  and  turned  in 

part 
F/pwards,  —  the  blade' s   hilt    glittering 

o'er  his  heart, 


loo 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


"Where  his  own  mad  right  arm  had  sent 
it  home. 

Beneath   him,   in    soft-tinted,    fadeless 
bloom. 

Beneath  him  smiled  the  portrait  he  had 
torn 

Madly  from  off  the  wall,  his    wan  face 
borne 

Next  the  clear  brightness  of  that  life- 
like one 

For  whose  fair  sake  he  lay,  at  last  un- 
done ; 

But  whose  glad  smile,   could  she  have 
lived  that  hour, 

Had  waned  and  withered  inward,  like  a   j 
flower 

The   storm-wind    blights,    at    stern    re- 
venge,  like  this, 

Of  love"s  cold  scorn  and  passion's  unpaid 
kiss. 


AE  Til II  A. 

It  is  a  sweet  tradition,  with  a  soul 

Of  tenderest  pathos !    Hearken,  love !  — 

for  all 
The  sacred  undercurrents  of  the  heart 
Thrill  to  its  cordial  music: 

Once,  a  chief, 
Philantus,  king  of  Sparta,  left  the  stern 
And    bleak    defiles    of    his    unfruitful 

land  — 
Girt  by  a  band  of  eager  colonists  — 
To   seek    new    homes    on    fair    Italian 

plains. 
Apollo's  oracle  had  darkly  spoken: 
"  Where'er    from     cloudless     skies    a 

plenteous  shoiver 
Outpours,  the  Fates  decree  that  yeshoxdd 

pause 
And    rear    your     household    deities!" 

Backed  by  doubt 
Philantus   traversed   with    his    faithful 

band 
Full  many  a  bounteous  realm ;  but  still 

defeat 
Darkened  his  banners,  and  the  strong- 
walled  towns 


His  desperate  sieges  grimly  laughed   to 

scorn ! 
Weighed  down  by  anxious  thoughts,  one 

sultry  eve 
The    warrior  —  his    rude    helmet    cast 

aside  — 
Bested  his  weary  head  upon  the  lap 
Of   his   fair  wife,   who  loved  him  ten- 
derly ; 
And  there  he  drank  a  generous  draught 

of  sleep. 
She,  gazing  on  his  brow  all  worn  with 

toil 
And  his   dark  locks,   which  pain   had 

silvered  over 
With   glistening    touches    of    a    frosty 

rime, 
Wept     on     the     sudden    bitterly;    her 

tears 
Fell  on  his   face,   and,   wondering,   he 

woke. 
"  O  blest  art  thou,  my  Aethra,  my  clear 

sky," 
He  cried  exultant,  "from  whose  pitying 

blue 
A  heart-rain  falls  to  fertilize  my  fate: 
Lo!  the  deep  riddle's  solved  —  the  gods 

spake  truth! " 

So  the  next  night  he  stormed  Tarentum, 
took 

The  enemy's  host  at  vantage,  and  o'er- 
threw 

His  mightiest  captains.  Thence  with 
kindly  sway 

He  ruled  those  pleasant  regions  he  had 
won,  — 

But  dearer  even  than  his  rich  demesnes 

The  love  of  her  Avhose  gentle  tears  un- 
locked 

The  close-shut  mystery  of  the  Oracle ! 


RENE  WED. 

Welcome,  rippling  sunshine! 

Welcome,  joyous  air! 
Like  a  demon  shadow 

Flies  the  gaunt  despair ! 


RENEWED. 


101 


Heaven,     through    heights     of    happy 
calm, 
Its  heart  of  hearts  uncloses, 
To     win    earth"  s     answering     love    in 
balm, 
Her  blushing  thanks  —  in  roses ! 

Voices  from  the  pine-grove, 

Where  the  pheasant's  drumming, 

Voices  from  the  ferny  hills 
Alive  with  insect  humming; 


Voices  low  and  sweet 

From  the  far-off  stream, 
Where  two  rivulets  meet 

With  the  murmur  of  a  dream ; 
Voices  loud  and  free 
From  every  bush  and  tree, 
Of  sportive  forest  bards  outpouring  songs 
of  gladness ; 
But  over  them  still 
With  its  passionate  trill, 
The  mock-bird"s  jocund  madness! 


Voices  low  and  sweet 
From  the  far-off  stream. 


Deep  down  the  swampy  brake 
Even  the  poison-snake. 
Uncoiled  and  basking  in  the  noontide 
splendor, 
May  feel,  perchance  on  this  auspicious 

day 
(All  dark  clouds  rolled  away). 
Through  his   stagnant  blood. 
"Warmed  by  the  sunlight  flood 
A  faint,  far  sense, 
Coming  he  knows  not  whence, 
Of  dim  intelligence. — 
The  thinnest  conscious  thrill  that  human 
is,  and  tender ! 

Look!  where  on  luminous  wing 
The  ether's  stately  king, 


The  lone  sea-eagle,  circling  proud  and 
slow, 

Towers  in  the  sapphire  glow; 

From  out  whose  dazzling  beam. 
His  resonant  scream; 

Heard   even    here,  —  a    note    of    fierce 
desire.  — 

Hushes  to  silent  awe  the  sylvan  choir. 

Till  bird    and   note   in   airy   deeps  up- 
drawn 

Are  melting  toward  the  dawn ! 

And  hear!  O!  hear! 
Xo  longer  wildly  terrible  and  drear. 
But    as    if    merry   pulses    timed    their 
beating. 
The  frolic  sea-waves  near, 


102 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Dancing    along    like    happy     maidens 

playing 
When  blithe  love  goes  "  a-Maying," 
And  wreaking  on  the  shore  their  pant- 
ing blisses 
In  coy  impulsive  kisses; 
Whilst  he  —  poor  dullard  —  cannot  catch 

nor  hold  them, 
Nor  in  his   massive,   earthen  arms  en- 
fold them, 
The  laughing   virgin  waves,  so  archly, 
swiftly  fleeting! 
This  subtle  atmosphere, 
So  magically  clear, 
Melts,  as  it  were  upon  my  eager  lip; 
From  some  invisible  goblet  of  delight 

Idly  I  sip  and  sip 
A  Avine  so  warm  and  golden 
(From  some  enchanted  bin  the  wine 
was  stolen), 
A  wine  so  sweet  and  rare, 
Methinks  a  nobler  birth 
Illuminates  the  earth, 
And  in  my  heart  I  hear  a  fairy  singing; 
Yet  well  I  know  'tis  but  my  soul  renewed, 

Beborn  and  bright, 
From  grief    and   grief's  malignant  soli- 
tude! 
Yet  well  I  know,  Joy  is  the  Ganymede, 
Who  in  my  yearning  need, 
Turns  to  a  cordial  rich  the  balmy  air; 
And  'tis  but  Hope's,  divinest  Hope's 

return. 
Which  makes  my  inmost  spirit  throb 
and  burn, 
And  Hope's  triumphant  song, 
So  sweet  and  strong. 
That  all  creation  seems  with  that  weird 
music  ringing! 


KRISHNA  AND  HIS    TITHE  E   HAND- 
MAIDENS. 

And  where  he  sat  beneath  the  mystic 

stars, 
Nigh  the  twin  founts  of  Immortality, 
That  feed  fair  channels  of  the  Stream 

of  Trance,  — 


To  Krishna  once  his  three  handmaidens 

came, 
Asking  a  boon :  "  O  king !  O  lord  !  "  they 

said, 
"Test  thou  thy  servants'  wisdom;  long 

in  dreams, 
Born   of   the  waters  of   thy  Stream  of 

Trance, 
Have  we,  thy  fond  handmaidens  wan- 
dered free, 
And  lapped  in  airiest  wreaths  of  fantasy ; 
Now  would  we.  viewless,  bearing  each 

some  gift 
From  thee,  our  father,  seek  the  world  of 

man. 
The   world   of    man    and    pain,   which 

whoso  leaves 
Better  or  brighter,  for  thy  gift  bestowed 
Most  worthily,  shall  claim  thy  just  re- 
ward, 
The    Crown    of     Wisdom!"       Krishna 

heard,  and  gave 
To  each  one  tiny  drop  of  diamond  dew, 
Drawn   from    the   founts   that  feed  the 

Stream  of  Trance. 
Wherewith,  on   wattage   of   miraculous 

winds. 
Breathing   full    south,  they   sought   the 

world  of   man, 
The  world  of  man  and  pain,  that  shrank 

in  drought, 
Palsied  and  withered,  like  an  old  man's 

face 
Death-smitten. 

And  the  first  handmaiden  saw 
A  monarch's  fountain,  sparkling  in  the 

waste, 
Glowing  and  fresh,  though  all  the  land 

was  sick, 
Gasping   for   rain,   and   famished  thou- 
sands died: 
"O    brave,'"    she    said,     "O    beautiful 

bright  waves! 
Like  calls  to  like;"  and  so  her  dewdrop 

glanced, 
And  glittered  downward  as  a  fairy  star 
Loosed  from  a  tress  of  Cassiopeia's  hair, 
Down  to  the  glorious  fountain  of  the  king. 


UNDER    THE   PINE. 


103 


Over    the    passionless    bosom    of    the 

sea, 
The  Indian  Sea,  cerulean,  crystal-clear, 
And  calm,  the  second  handmaid,  hover- 
ing, viewed  — 
Far  through  the  tangled   sea-weed  and 

cool  tides 
Pulsing  'twixt  coral  branches  —  the  wide 

lips 
Of  purpling  shells  that  yearned  to  clasp 

a  pearl : 
So   where    the    oyster,   blindly    reared, 

awaits 
Its  priceless  soul  —  she  lets  the  dewdrop 

fall, 
Thenceforth   to    grow    a   jewel    fit    for 

courts. 
And  shine  on  swanlike  necks  of  haughty 

queens ! 

Bat  Krishna's  third  handmaiden  scarce 

had  felt 
The  fume  from  parched  plains  that  made 

the  air 
As  one  vast  caldron  of  invisible  tire, 
Than  casting  downward  pitiful  eyes,  she 

saw, 
Crouched  in  the  brazen  cere  of  that  red 

heat, 
A  tiny  bird  —  a  poor,   weak,   suffering 

thing 
(Its  bright  eyes  glazed,   its   limbs   con- 
vulsed and  prone),  — 
Dying  of  thirst  in  torture:   ''Ah,  kind 

Lord 
Krishna,''     his    handmaid    murmured, 

"  speed  thy  gift, 
Best  yielded  here,  to  soothe,  perchance 

to  save 
The  lowliest  mortal  creature  cursed  with 

pain!  " 
Gently  she  shook  the  dewdrop  from  her 

palm 
Into   the   silent  throat  that  thirst  had 

sealed, 
Soon  silent,  sealed  no  more, — for,  lo! 

the  bird 
Fluttered,  arose,  was  strengthened,  and 

through  calms 


Of  happy  ether,  echoing  fair  and  far, 
Piang  the  charmed  music  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 

And    so,  where    crowned   beneath   the 

mystic  stars, 
Nigh  the  twin  founts  of  immortality, 
Krishna,  the  father,  saw  what  ruth  was 

hers, 
And,  smiling,  to  his  wise  handmaiden's 

rule 
Gave   the   great    storm-clouds   and   the 

mists  of  heaven, 
Till    at    her   voice   the    mighty  vapors 

rolled 
Up  from  the  mountain-gorges,  and  the 

seas, 
And  cloudland  darkened,  and  the  grate- 
fid  rain. 
Burdened  with  benedictions,  rushed  and 

foamed 
Down  the  hot  channels,  and  the  foliaged 

hills. 
And  the  frayed  lips  and  languid  limbs 

of  flowers; 
And   all    the   woodland;    laughed,   and 

earth  was  glad! 


UNDER  THE  PIXE. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HEXRY  TIMEOD. 

The  same  majestic  pine  is  lifted  high 

Against  the  twilight  sky, 
The  same  low,  melancholy  music  grieves 

Amid  the  topmost  leaves, 
As  when   I   watched,   and   mused,  and 
dreamed  with  him, 

Beneath  these  shadows  dim. 

O  Tree!  hast  thou    no  memory  at  thy 
core 
Of  one  who  comes  no  more  ? 
Xo   yearning  memory  of   those   scenes 
that  were 
So  richly  calm  and  fair, 
When  the  last  rays  of  sunset,  shimmer- 
ing down, 
Flashed  like  a  royal  crown  ? 


104 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


And    be,   with    hand  outstretched  and 

But  speaks  of  him,  and  seems  to  bring 

eyes  ablaze, 

once  more 

Looked  forth  with  burning  gaze. 

The  joy,  the  love  of  yore ; 

And   seemed   to   drink  the   sunset  like 

But  most  when  breathed   from  out  the 

strong  wine. 

sunset-land 

Or,  hushed  in  trance  divine. 

The  sunset  airs  are  bland. 

Hailed  the  first  shy  and  timorous  glance 

That  blow  between  the  twilight  and  the 

from  far 

night, 

Of  evening's  virgin  star  '? 

Ere  yet  the  stars  are  bright ; 

0  Tree !   against   thy  mighty  trunk  he 

For  then  that  quiet  eve  comes  back  to 

laid 

me, 

His  weary  head ;  thy  shade 

When,  deeply,  thrillingly, 

Stole  o'er  him  like  the  first  cool  spell  of 

He  spake  of  lofty  hopes  which  vanquish 

sleep : 

Death; 

It  brought  a  peace  so  deep 

And  on  his  mortal  breath 

The  unquiet  passion  died  from  out  his 

A  language  of  immortal  meanings  hung. 

eyes, 

That  fired  his  heart  and  tongue. 

As  lightning  from  stilled  skies. 

For    then    unearthly    breezes    stir    and 

And  in  that  calm  he  loved  to  rest,  and 

sigh, 

hear 

Murmuring,  "Look  up  !  'tis  I: 

The  soft  wind-angels,  clear 

Thy    friend    is    near   thee!      Ah,    thou 

And     sweet,      among     the     uppermost 

canst  not  see! " 

branches  sighing: 

And  through  the  sacred  tree 

Yoices  he  heard  replying 

Passes  what  seems  a  wild  and  sentient 

(Or  so   he  dreamed)  far  up  the  mystic 

thrill  — 

height. 

Passes,  and  all  is  still!  — 

And  pinions  rustling  light. 

Still  as  the  grave  which  holds  his  tran- 

OTree!   have   not  his    poet-touch,  his 

quil  form, 

dreams 

Hushed  after  many  a  storm.  — 

So  full  of  heavenly  gleams. 

Still  as  the  calm  that  crowns  his  marble 

Wrought  through  the  folded  dullness  of 

brow, 

thy  bark. 

Xo  pain  can  wrinkle  now.  — 

And  all  thy  nature  dark 

Still   as   the   peace  —  pathetic   peace   of 

Stirred  to  slow  throhbings,  and  the  flut- 

God — 

tering  fire 

That  wraps  the  holy  sod, 

Of  faint,  unknown  desire  ? 

Where  every  flower  from  our  dead  min- 

At least  to  me  there  sweeps  no  rugged 

strel's  dust 

ring 

Should  bloom,  a  type  of  trust,  — 

That  girds  the  forest-king 

That    faith    which   waxed   to   wings   of 

No  immemorial  stain,  or  awful  rent 

heavenward  might 

(The  mark  of  tempest  spent). 

To  bear  his  soul  from  night,  — 

No  delicate  leaf,  no  lithe  bough,  vine- 

That    faith,    dear   Christ!    whereby   we 

o'ergrown, 

pray  to  meet 

No  distant,  flickering  cone. 

His  spirit  at  God's  feet! 

IN   THE   MIST. 


105 


A   DUE  AM  OF   THE   SOUTH  WIXDS. 

O  fresh,  how  fresh  and  fair 
Through  the  crystal  gulfs  of  air. 
The  fairy  South  Wind  floateth  on  her 
subtle  wings  of  balm ! 
And  the  green  earth  lapped  in  bliss, 
To  the  magic  of  her  kiss 
Seems  yearning  upward  fondly  through 
the  golden-crested  calm! 

From  the  distant  Tropic  strand. 
Where  the  billows,  bright  and  bland, 
Go  creeping,  curling   round   the  palms 
with  sweet,  faint  undertime 
From  its  fields  of  purpling  flowers 
Still  wet  with  fragrant  showers, 
The  happy  South  Wind  lingering  sweeps 
the  royal  blooms  of  June. 

All  heavenly  fancies  rise 
On  the  perfume  of  her  sighs, 
Which  steep  the  inmost  spirit  in  a  lan- 
guor rare  and  fine, 
And  a  peace  more  pure  than  sleep's 
Unto  dim,  half-conscious  deeps, 
Transports  me.  lulled  and  dreaming,  on 
its  twilight  tides  divine. 

Those  dreams !  ah  me !  the  splendor. 
So  mystical  and  tender, 
Wherewith     like     soft    heat-lightnings 
they  gird  their  meaning  round, 
And  those  waters,  calling,  calling, 
With  a  nameless  charm  enthralling, 
Like  the  ghost  of  music  melting  on  a 
rainbow  spray  of  sound! 

Touch,  touch  me  not,  nor  wake  me, 
Lest  grosser  thoughts  o'ertake  me, 
From  earth  receding  faintly  with  her 
dreary  din  and  jars.  — 
What  viewless  arms  caress  me  ? 
What   whispered  voices  bless  me. 
With  welcomes  dropping  dewlike  from 
the  weird  and  wondrous  stars  ? 

Alas !  dim,  dim,  and  dimmer 
Grows  the  preternatural  glimmer 
Of  that  trance  the  South  Wind  brought 
me  on  her  subtle  wines  of  balm. 


For  behold!  its  spirit  flieth. 
And  its  fairy  murmur  dieth, 
And   the  silence  closing  round  me  is  a 
dull  and  soulless  calm! 


IN   THE  MIST. 

More  fearful  grows  the  hillside  way. 
The  gloom  no-  softening  breeze  hath 
kissed! 
I  glance  far  upward  to  the  day. 
But  scarce  can  catch  one  faltering  ray 
From  out  the  mist ! 

Ah,  heaven !  to  think  youth's  morning 
prime. 
All  flushed  with  rose  and  amethyst. 
Its  tender  loves,  its  hopes  sublime, 
Should  shrink  to  this  dull  twilight-time 
Of  cold  and  mist ! 

Xo  tranquil  evening  hour  descends, 
When  peace  with  memory  holds  her 
tryst. 
But  doubt  with  prescient  terror  blends. 
And  grief  her  mournful  curfew  sends 
Along  the  mist ! 

Weird   shapes   and  wild,  stalk  strangely 
by, 
And  say,  what  bodeful  voices  hissed 
"Where  yonder  blasted  pine-trunks  lie  '? 
What  mystic  phantoms  shuddering  fly 
Far  down  the  mist  ? 

Dark  omens  all!  they  bid  me  stay. 
Unsheathe  resolve,  pause,  strive,   re- 
sist 
That  poisonous  charm  which  haunts  my 

way ; 
Alas!  the  fiend,  more  bold  than  they. 
Still  rules  the  mist ! 

And  now  from  gulfs  of  turbulent  gloom 
A    torrent's    threatening    thunder;  — 
list! 
That  ravening  roar!  that  hungry  boom! 
Down,  down  I  pass  to  meet  my  doom 
Within  the  mist ! 


106 


LEGENDS   AND    LYRICS. 


A   SUMMER  MOOD. 

"Xow,  by  my  faith   a  gruesome  mood,  for 
summer  !"  —  Thomas  Heywabd  (1597). 

Ah,  me !  for  evermore,  for  evermore 
These   human   hearts    of    ours    must 
yearn  and  sigh, 
While  down  the  dells  and  up  the  mur- 
murous shore 
Nature  renews  her  immortality. 

The  heavens  of  June  stretch  calm  and 
bland  above, 
June  roses  blush  with  tints  of  Orient 
skies, 
But  we,  by  graves   of  joy,  desire,   and 
love, 
Mourn  in  a  world  which  breathes  of 
Paradise ! 

The  sunshine  mocks  the  tears   it  may 
not  dry. 
The  breezes  —  tricksy  couriers  of  the 
air  — 
Child-roisterers  winged,  and  lightly  flut- 
tering by  — 
Blow  their  gay  trumpets  in  the  face 
of  care ; 

And  bolder  winds,  the  deep  sky's  pas- 
sionate speech, 
Woven  into  rhythmic  raptures  of  tie- 
sire. 
Or  fugues  of  mystic  victory,  sadly  reach 
Our  humbled  souls,  to  rack,  not  raise 
them  higher! 

The  field-birds  seem  to  twit  us  as  they 
pass 
With  their  small  blisses,  piped  so  clear 
and  loud; 
The  cricket  triumphs  o'er  us  in  the  grass, 
And  the   lark,  glancing  beamlike  up 
the  cloud, 

Sings  us  to  scorn  with  his  keen  rhapso- 
dies ; 
Small  things   and   great  unconscious 
tauntimrs  bring 


To  edge  our  cares,  whilst  we,  the  proud 
and  wise, 
Envy  the  insect's  joy,   the  birdling's 
wing! 

And  thus  for  evermore,  till  time   shall 
cease, 
Man's  soul  and  Nature's  —  each  a  sep- 
arate sphere  — 
Revolve,    the   one   in    discord,    one    in 
peace. 
And  who  shall  make  the  solemn  mys- 
tery clear  ? 


MIDNIGHT. 

The  Moon,  a  ghost  of  her  sweet  self, 
And  wading  through  a  watery  cloud, 
Which  wraps  her  lustre  like  a  shroud, 

Creeps  up  the  gray,  funereal  sky, 
Wearily !  how  wearily ! 

The  Wind,  with  low,  bewildered  wail 
A  homeless  spirit,  sadly  lost, 
Sweeps    shuddering    o'er   the    pallid 
frost, 
And  faints  afar,  with  heart-sick  sigh, 
Drearily!  how  drearily! 

And  now  a  deathly  stillness  falls 

On  earth  and  heaven,  save  when  the 

shrill. 
Malignant  owl  o'er  heath  and  hill 
Smites  the  wan  silence  with  a  cry, 
Eerily!  how  eerily! 


THE   BONNY  BROWN  HAND. 

Oir,  drearily,  how  drearily,  the  sombre 
eve  comes  down ! 
And  wearily,  how  wearily,  the  seaward 
breezes  blow ! 
But  place  your  little  hand  in  mine  —  so 
dainty,  yet  so  brown! 
For  household  toil  hath  worn  away  its 
rosy-tinted  snow : 


"  The  Moon,  a  ghost  of  her  sweet  self, 
Creeps  up  the  gray,  funereal  sky, 
Wearily  !     how  wearily." 


SONNETS. 


107 


But  I  fold  it,  wife,  the  nearer, 
And  I  feel,  my  love,  'tis  dearer 
Than  all  dear  things  of  earth. 
As  I  watch  the  pensive  gloaming. 
And  my  wild  thoughts  cease  from 
roaming, 
And  birdlike  furl  their  pinions  close  be- 
side our  peaceful  hearth : 
Then  rest  your  little  hand  in  mine,  while 

twilight  shimmers  down,  — 
That  little  hand,  that  fervent  hand,  that 

hand  of  bonny  brown,  — 
The  hand  that  holds  an  honest  heart, 
and  rules  a  happy  hearth. 

Oh,  merrily,  how  merrily,  our  children's 
voices  rise! 
And  cheerily,  how  cheerily,  their  tiny 
footsteps  fall! 
But,  hand,  you  must  not  stir  awhile,  for 
there  our  nestling  lies, 
Snug  in  the  cradle  at  your  side,  the 
loveliest  far  of  all; 
And  she  looks  so  arch  and  airy, 
So  softly  pure  a  fairy,  — 
She  scarce  seems  bound  to  earth ; 
And     her    dimpled    mouth    keeps 

smiling, 
As  at  some  child  fay's  beguiling. 
Who  flies  from  Ariel  realms  to  light  her 

slumbers  on  the  hearth. 
Ha,  little  hand,  you  yearn  to  move,  and 

smooth  the  bright  locks  down ! 
But,  little  hand, — but.  trembling  hand, 

—  but,  hand  of  bonny  brown, 
Stay,  stay  with  me !  —  she  will  not  flee, 
our  birdling  on  the  hearth. 

Oh,  flittingly,  how  flittingly,  the  parlor 
shadows  thrill, 
As  wittingly,  half  wittingly,  they  seem 
to  pulse  and  pass ! 
And  solemn  sounds  are  on  the  wind  that 
sweeps  the  haunted  hill. 
And  murmurs  of  a  ghostly  breath  from 
out  the  graveyard  grass. 
Let  me  feel  your  glowing  fingers 
In  a  clasp  that  warms  and  lingers 
With  the  full,  fond  love  of  earth. 


Till  the  joy  of  love's  completeness 
In  this  flush  of  fireside  sweetness, 
Shall  brim  our  hearts  with  spirit-wine, 

outpoured  beside  the  hearth. 
So  steal  your  little  hand  in  mine,  while 

twilight  falters  down,  — 
That  little  hand,  that  fervent  hand,  that 

hand  of  bonny  brown.  — 
The    hand   which    points    the    path    to 

heaven,  yet  makes  a  heaven  of 

earth. 


SOXXETS. 
THE    COTTAGE    OX   THE    HILL. 

Ox  a  steep  hillside,  to  all  airs  that  blow, 

Open,  and  open  to  the  varying  sky, 

Our  cottage  homestead,  smiling  tran- 
quilly, 

Catches  morn's  earliest  and  eve's  latest 
glow ; 

Here,  far  from  worldly  strife,  and 
pompous  show, 

The  peaceful  seasons  glide  serenely  by, 

Fulfil  their  missions,  and  as  calmly  die, 

As  waves  on  quiet  shores  -when  winds 
are  low. 

Fields,  lonely  paths,  the  one  small  glim- 
mering rill 

That  twinkles  like  a  wood-fay's  mirth- 
ful eye. 

Under  moist  bay-leaves,  clouds  fantas- 
tical 

That  float  and  change  at  the  light 
breeze's  will.  — 

To  me,  thus  lapped  in  sylvan  luxury. 

Are  more  than  death  of  kings,  or 
empires'  fall. 

XOVEMBEE. 

Withix  the  deep-blue  eyes  of  Heaven  a 
haze 

Of  saddened  passion  dims  their  tender 
light, 

For  that  her  fair  queen-child,  the  Sum- 
mer bright, 


108 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


Lies  a  wan  corse  amidst  her  mouldering 

bays : 
The  sullen   Autumn    lifts   no   voice   of 

praise 
To    herald    Winter" s     cold     and    cruel 

might, 
But  winds  foreboding   fill   the  desolate 

night, 
And  die  at  dawning  down  wild  wood- 
land ways: 
The  sovereign  sun  at   noonday  smileth 

cold, 
As  through  a  shroud  he  hath  no  power 

to  part, 
"While    huddled    flocks    crouch    listless 

round  their  fold ; 
The  mock-bird's   dumb,  no   more  with 

cheerful  dart 
Upsoars    the    lark    through    morning's 

quivering  gold, 
And   dumb    or    dead,   methinks,    great 

Nature's  heart! 

SYLVAN   MUSINGS.  —  IX   MAY. 

Couched  in  cool  shadow,  girt  by 
billowy  swells 

Of  foliage,  rippling  into  buds  and 
flowers, 

Here  I  repose  o' erf  aimed  by  breezy 
bowers.  — 

Lulled  by  a  delicate  stream  whose 
music  wells 

Tender  and  low  through  those  luxuriant 
dells, 

Wherefrom  a  single  broad-leaved  chest- 
nut towers;  — 

Still  musing  in  the  long,  lush,  languid 
hours.  — 

As  in  a  dream  I  heard  the  tinkling 
bells 

Of  far-off  kine.  glimpsed  through  the 
verdurous  sheen. 

Blent  with  faint  bleatings  from  the  dis- 
tant croft,  — 

The  bee-throngs  murmurous  in  the 
golden  fern, 

The  wood-doves  veiled  by  depths  of 
nickering  green,  — 


And  near  me,  where   the  wild  '•queen 

fairies"  *  burn, 
The  thrush's  bridal  passion,  warm  and 

soft! 


Some   thunder  on  the   heights  of  song, 

their  race 
Godlike  in  power,  while  others  at  their 

feet 
Are    breathing    measures     scarce    less 

strong  and  sweet 
Than   those  which  pea}  from  out  that 

loftiest  place ; 
Meantime,  just  midway  on  the  mount. 

his  face 
Fairer  than  April  heavens,  when  storms 

retreat, 
And  on  their  edges  rain  and   sunshine 

meet. 
Pipes    the    soft    lyrist    lays   of    tender 

grace ; 
But  where  the  slopes  of  bright  Parnassus 

sweep 
Near  to  the  common  ground,  a  various 

throng 
Chant  lowlier  measures,  —  yet  each  tune- 
ful strain 
(The   silvery   minor   of    earth's   perfect 

song) 
Blends  with  that  music  of  the  topmost 

steep, 
O'er  whose  vast  realm  the  master  min- 
strels reign ! 


Behold!     how    weirdly,     wonderfully 

grand 
The  shades  and  colors  of  yon  sunset  sky! 
Rare  isles  of  light  in  crimson  oceans  lie, 
Wnose  airy  waves  seem  rippling,  bright 

and  bland, 
Up  the  soft  slopes   of   many  a  mystic 

strand.  — 


*  "Queen  fairy,"  the  name  given  popularly 
to  an  exquisite  Southern  wild  flower. 


SONNETS. 


109 


While  luminous  capes,  and  mountains 

towering  high 
In  golden  pomp  and  proud  regality, 
O'erlook  the  frontier  of  that  fairy  land, 
But  now,  in  transformations  swift  and 

strange 
The  vision  changes!    Castles  glittering 

fair, 


And    sapphire    battlements    of    loftiest 

range 
Commingle  with  vast  spire  and  gorgeous 

dome. 
Round  which  the  sunset  rolls  its  purpling 

foam, 
Girding  this  transient  Venice    of  the 

air. 


'  Upveiled  in  yonder  dim  ethereal  sea, 
Its  airy  towers  the  work  of  phantom  spells, 
A  viewless  belfry  tolls  its  wizard  bells." 


THE   PHANTOM   BELLS. 

Upveiled  in  yonder  dim  ethereal  sea. 
Its  airy  towers   the   work  of  phantom 

spells, 
A  viewless  belfry  tolls  its  wizard  bells. 
Pealed  o'er  this  populous  earth  perpet- 
ually. 
Some  hear,  some  hear   them  not;   but 
aye  they  be 


Laden  with  one  strange  note  that  sinks 
or  swells, 

Xow  dread  as  doom,  now  gentle  as  fare- 
wells, 

Time's  dirge  borne  ever  toward  eternity. 

Each  hour  its  measured  breath  sobs  out 
and  dies, 

While  the  bell  tolls  its  requiem, — 
"Passing,  past." — 

The  sole  sad  burden  of  their  Ions;  refrain. 


110 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


Still,  with  those  hours  each  pang,  each 

pleasure  flies. 
Brief  sweet,  brief  bitter,  —  all  our  days 

are  vain, 
Knollecl  into  drear  forgetfulness  at  last. 

THE    LIFE-FOREST. 

In  springtime  of  our  youth,  life's  pur- 
pling shade, 

Foliage  and  fruit,  do  hang  so  thickly 
round, 

We  seem  glad  tenants  of  enchanted 
ground, 

O'er  which  for  aye  dream-whispering 
winds  have  played. 

Then  summer  comes,  her  full-blown 
charm  is  laid 

On  all  the  forest  aisles ;  from  bound  to 
bound 

Floats  woodland  music,  and  the  silvery 
sound 

Of  fountains  babbling  to  the  golden 
glade. 

Xext,  a  chill  breath,  the  breath  of  Au- 
tumn's doom 

Strips  the  fair  sylvan  branches,  one  by 
one, 

Till  the  bare  landscape  broadens  to  our 
view ; 

Behind,  black  tree  boles  blot  the  twilight 
blue, 

Before,  unfoliaged,  bald  of  light  and 
bloom. 

Our  pathway  darkens  towards  the  dark- 
ening sun! 

CLOUD   FANTASIES. 

Wild,  rapid,  dark,  like  dreams  of  threat- 
ening doom, 

Low  cloud-racks  scud  before  the  level 
wind ; 

Beneath  them,  the  bare  moorlands, 
blank  and  blind, 

Stretch,  mournful,  through  pale  lengths 
of  glimmering  gloom ; 

Afar,  grand  mimic  of  the  sea  waves' 
boom, 


Hollow,  yet  sweet  as  if  a  Titan  pined 

O'er  deathless  woes,  yon  mighty  wood, 
consigned 

To  autumn's  blight,  bemoans  its 
perished  bloom ; 

The  dim  air  creeps  with  a  vague  shud- 
dering thrill 

Down  from  those  monstrous  mists  the 
sea-gale  brings, 

Half  formless,  inland,  poisoning  earth 
and  sky; 

Most  from  yon  black  cloud,  shaped  like 
vampire  wings 

O'er  a  lost  angel's  visage,  deathly-still, 

Uplifted  toward  some  dread  eternity. 

SONNET. 

I  fear  thee  not,  O  Death !  nay,  oft  I  pine 
To  clasp  thy  passionless  bosom  to  mine 

own, 
And   on   thy   heart   sob   out    my   latest 

moan, 
Ere  lapped  and  lost  in  thy  strange  sleep 

divine ; 
But  much  I  fear  lest  that  chill  breath  of 

thine 
Should  freeze  all  tender  memories  into 

stone,  — 
Lest  ruthless  and  malign  Oblivion 
Quench  the  last  spark  that  lingers  on 

love's  shrine: 
O  God!  to  moulder  through  dark,  date- 
less years, 
The  while    all    loving  ministries   shall 

cease, 
And  time  assuage  the  fondest  mourner's 

tears ! 
Here  lies  the  sting !  —  this,  this  it  is  to  die ! 
And  yet  great  nature  rounds  all  strife 

with  peace, 
And  life  or  death,  each  rests  in  mystery ! 

SONNET. 

Of  all  the  woodland  flowers  of  earlier 

spring, 
These  golden  jasmines,  each  an  air-hung 

bower. 


FIRE-PICTURES. 


Ill 


Meet  for  the  Queen  of  Fairies'  tiring 
hour, 

Seem  loveliest  and  most  fair  in  blossom- 
ing; 

How  yonder  mock-bird  thrills  his  fer- 
vid wing 

And  long,  lithe  throat,  where  twinkling 
flower  on  flower 

Rains  the  globed  dewdrops  down,  a  dia- 
mond shower, 

O'er  his  brown  head  poised  as  in  act  to 
sing; 

Lo !  the  swift  sunshine  floods  the  flowery 
urns, 

Girding  their  delicate  gold  with  match- 
less light, 

Till  the  blent  life  of  bough,  leaf,  blossom, 
burns; 

Then,  then  outbursts  the  mock-bird  clear 
and  loud, 

Half-drunk  with  perfume,  veiled  by  ra- 
diance bright, 

A  star  of  music  in  a  fiery  cloud ! 


FIRE- PIC  T  URES. 

O!  the  rolling,  rushing  fire! 

O!  the  fire! 
How  it  rages,  wilder,  higher, 
Like  a  hot  heart's  fierce  desire. 
Thrilled  with  passion  that  appalls  us, 
Half  appalls,  and  yet  enthralls  us, 
O !  the  madly  mounting  fire ! 

Up  it  sweepeth, —  wave  and  quiver,  — 
Roaring  like  an  angry  river,  — 

O !  the  fire ! 
Which  an  earthquake  backward  turneth, 
Backward  o'er  its  riven  courses, 
Backward  to  its  mountain  sources, 
While  the  blood-red  sunset  burnetii, 
Like  a  God's  face  grand  with  ire, 
O !  the  bursting,  billowy  fire ! 

Xow  the  sombre  smoke-clouds  thicken 
To  a  dim  Plutonian  night;  — 

O!  the  fire! 
How  its  flickering  glories  sicken, 


Sicken  at  the  blight! 
Pales  the  flame,  and  spreads  the  vapor, 
Till  scarce  larger  than  a  taper, 
Flares  the  waning,  struggling  light: 
O !  thou  wan,  faint-hearted  fire, 

Sadly  darkling, 

Weakly  sparkling, 
Rise !  assert  thy  might ! 

Aspire!  aspire! 

At  the  word,  a  vivid  lightning, 

Threatening,   swaying,   darting,   bright- 
ening, 

Where  the  loftiest  yule-log  towers,  — 
Bursts  once  more, 

Sudden  bursts  the  awakened  fire; 
Hear  it  roar! 

Roar,  and  mount  high,  high,  and  higher, 
Till  beneath, 

Only  here  and  there  a  wreath 

Of  the  passing  smoke-cloud  lowers,  — 
Ha !  the  glad,  victorious  fire ! 

O!  the  fire! 

How  it  changes, 

Changes,  ranges 
Through  all  phases  fancy-wrought, 
Changes  like  a  wizard  thought; 
See  Yesuvian  lavas  rushing 
'Twixt  the  rocks!  the  ground  asunder 
Shivers  at  the  earthquake's  thunder; 
And  the  glare  of  Hell  is  flushing 
Startled  hill-top,  quaking  town; 
Temples,  statues,  towers  go  down, 
While  beyond  that  lava  flood, 
Dark-red  like  blood, 
I  behold  the  children  fleeting 
Clasped  by  many  a  frenzied  hand ; 
What  a  flight,  and  what  a  meeting, 
On  the  ruined  strand ! 

0 !  the  fire ! 
Eddying  higher,  higher,  higher 
From  the  vast  volcanic  cones ; 
O !  the  agony,  the  groans 
Of  those  thousands  stifling  there ! 
"  Fancy,"  say  you  ?  but  how  near 
Seem  the  anguish  and  the  fear! 
Swelling,  turbulent,  pitiless  fire: 


112 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


'Tis  a  mad  northeastern  breeze 

Sits  a  toper,  stout  and  yellow, 

Having  o'er  the  prairie  seas; 

Blinking  o'er  his  steamy  bowl; 

How,  like  living  things,  the  grasses 

Hugely  drinking, 

Tremble  as  the  storm-breath  passes. 

Slyly  winking, 

Ere  the  names'  devouring  magic 

As  the  pot-house  Hebe  passes, 

Coils  about  their  golden  splendor, 

With  a  clink  and  clang  of  glasses; 

And  the  tender 

Ha!  'tis  plain,  the  stout  old  fellow  — 

Glory  of  the  mellowing  fields 

As  his  wont  is — waxes  mellow, 

To  the  wild  destroyer  yields ; 

Nodding  'twixt  each  dreamy  leer. 

Dreadful  waste  for  flowering  blooms, 

Swaying  in  his  elbow  chair. 

Desolate  darkness,  like  the  tomb's, 

Next  to  one,  —  a  portly  peasant.  — 

Over  which  there  broods  the  while, 

Pipe  in  hand,  whose  swelling  cheek, 

Instead  of  daylight's  happy  smile, 

Jolly,  rubicund,  and  sleek. 

A  pall  malign  and  tragic! 

Puffs  above  the  blazing  coal; 

While  his  heavy,  half-shut,  eyes 

Marvellous  fire ! 

Watch  the  smoke-wreaths  evanescent, 

Changing,  ranging 

Eddying  lightly  as  they  rise, 

Through  all  phases  fancy-wrought, 

Eddying  lightly  and  aloof 

Changing  like  a  charmed  thought ; 

Toward  the  great,  black,  oaken  roof! 

A  stir,  a  murmur  deep, 

Like  airs  that  rustle  over  jungle-reeds, 

Dreaming  still,  from  out  the  fire 

Where  the  gaunt  tiger  breathes  but  half 

Faces  grinning  and  grotesque, 

asleep ; 

Flash  an  eery  glance  upon  me; 

A  bodeful  stir,  — 

Or,  once  more,  methinks  1  sun  me 

And  then  the  victim  of  his  own  pure 

On  the  breadths  of  happy  plain 

deeds, 

Sloping  towards  the  southern  main, 

I  mark  the  mighty  lire 

Where  the  inmost  soul  of  shadow 

Clasps  in  its  cruel  palms  a  martyr-saint, 

Wins  a  golden  heat, 

Christ's  faithful  worshipper; 

And  the  hill-side  and  the  meadow 

One  mortal  cry  affronts  the  pitying  day, 

( Where  the  vines  and  clover  meet, 

One  ghastly  arm   uplifts  itself  to  heav- 

Twining round  the  virgins'  feet, 

en  — 

While  the  natural  arabesque 

When  the  swart  smoke  is  riven,  — 

Of  the  foliage  grouped  above  them 

Ere  the  last  sob  of  anguish  dies  away, 

Droops,  as  if  the  leaves  did  love  them, 

The  worn  limbs  droop  and  faint, 

Over  brow,  and  lips,  and  eyes) 

And  o'er  those  reverend  hairs,   silvery 

Gleam  with  hints  of  Paradise! 

and  hoary. 

Settles  the  semblance  of    a    crown    of 

Ah!  the  fire! 

glory. 

Gently  glowing, 

Fairly  flowing, 

Tireless  fire! 

Like  a  rivulet  rippling  deep 

Changing,  ranging 

Through  the  meadow-lands  of  sleep, 

Through  all  phases  fancy-wrought. 

Bordered  where  its  music  swells, 

Changing  like  a  Protean  thought; 

By  the  languid  lotos-bells, 

Here's  a  glowing,  warm  interior, 

And  the  twilight  asphodels ; 

A  Dutch  tavern,  rich  and  rosy 

Mingled  with  a  richer  boon 

With  deep  color,  —  sill  and  floor 

Of  queen-lilies,  each  a  moon, 

Dazzling  as  the  white  seashore, 

Orbed  into  white  completeness ; 

Where  within  his  armchair  cozy 

O !  the  perfume !  the  rare  sweetness 

FIRE-PICTURES. 


113 


Of  those  grouped  and  fairy  flowers, 

And  the  mammoth,  moonlike  shields, 

Over  which  the  love-lorn  hours 

Blazoned  on  their  lurid  fields, 

Linger,  —  not  alone  for  them. 

With  uncouth,  malignant  forms, 

Though  the  lotos  swings  its  stem 

Glowering,  wild. 

With  a  lulling  stir  of  leaves, — 

Like  the  huge  cloud-masses  piled 

Though  the  lady-lily  waves, 

Up  a  Heaven  of  storms ! 

And  a  silvery  undertime 

From  some  mystic  wind-song  grieves 

Ah,  the  faint  and  flickering  fire! 

Dainty  sweet  amid  the  bells 

Ah,  the  fire ! 

Of  the  twilight  asphodels ; 

Like  a  young  man's  transient  ire, 

But  because  a  charm  more  rare 

Like  an  old  man's  last  desire, 

Glorifies  the  mellow  air, 

Lo !  it  falters,  dies ! 

In  the  gleam  of  lifted  eyes, 

Still,  through  weary,  half-closed  lashes, 

In  the  tranquil  ecstasies 

Still  I  see, 

Of  two  lovers,  leaf-embowered, 

But  brokenly,  but  mistily, 

Lingering  there, 

Fall  and  rise, 

Each  of  whose  fair  lives  hath  flowered, 

Rise  and  fall, 

Like  the  lily-petals  finely, 

Ghosts  of  shifting  fantasy; 

Like  the  asphodel  divinely. 

Now  the  embers,  smouldered  all, 

Sink  to  ruin ;  sadder  dreams 

Titan  arches ! 

Follow  on  their  vanished  gleams ; 

Titan  spires ! 

Wailingly  the  spirits  call, 

Pillars  whose  vast  capitals 

Spirits  on  the  night-winds  solemn. 

Tower  toward  Cyclopean  halls, 

Wraiths  of  happy  Hopes  that  left  me ; 

And  whose  unknown  bases  pierce 

(Cruel!  why  did  ye  depart  ?  ) 

Down  the  nether  universe ; 

Hopes  that  sleep,  their  youthful  riot 

Countless  coruscations  glimmer, 

Merged  in  an  awful  quiet, 

Glow  and  darken,  wane  and  shimmer, 

With  the  heavy  grief-moulds  pressed 

'Twixt  majestic  standards,  swooping,  — 

On  each  pallid,  pulseless  breast, 

Like  the  wings  of  some  strange  bird 

In  that  graveyard  called  the  heapj:, 

By  mysterious  currents  stirred 

Stern  and  lone. 

Of  great  winds,  —  or  darkly  drooping, 

Xeeding  no  memorial  stone, 

In  a  hush  sublime  as  death, 

And  no  blazoned  column : 

When  the  conflict's  quivering  breath 

Let  them  rest ! 

Sobs  its  gory  life  away, 

Let  them  rest ! 

At  the  close  of  fateful  marches, 

Yes,  't  is  useless  to  remember 

On  an  empire's  natal  day: 

May-morn  in  the  mirk  December ; 

Countless  coruscations  glimmer, 

Still,  0  Hopes!  because  ye  were 

Glow  and  darken,  wane  and  shimmer, 

Beautiful,  and  strong,  and  fair, 

Round  the  shafts,  and  round  the  walls, 

Nobly  brave,  and  sweetly  bright, 

Whence  an  ebon  splendor  falls 

Who  shall  dare 

On  the  scar-seamed,  angel  bands,  — 

Scorn  me,  if  through  moistened  lashes. 

(  Desolate  bands ! ) 

Musing  by  my  hearthstone  blighted, 

Grasping  in  their  ghostly  hands 

Weary,  desolate,  benighted,  — 

Weapons  of  an  antique  rage, 

I,  because  those  sweet  Hopes  left  me, 

From  some  lost,  celestial  age, 

I,  because  my  fate  bereft  me, 

When  the  serried  throngs  were  hurled 

Mourn  my  dead, 

Blasted  to  the  under  world : 

Mourn,  —  and  shed 

Shattered  spear-heads,  broken  brands, 

Hot  tears  in  the  ashes  '? 

114 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


AN  ANNI } -EUSAR  Y. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding  day ! 

This  morn,  —  how  swift  the  seasons 
flee!  — 
A  virgin  morn  of  cloudless  May, 

You  gave  your  loyal  hand  to  me, 
Your  dainty  hand,  clasped  sweet  and  sure 
As  Love's  sweet  self,  for  evermore! 

0  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  memory  flies  from  now  to  then ; 

1  mark  the  soft  heat-lightning  play 

Of  blushes  o'er  your  cheek  again, 
And  shy  but  fond  foreshadowings  rise 
Of  tranquil  joy  in  tender  eyes. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day ; 

The  very  rustling  of  your  dress, 
The  trembling  of  your  arm  that  lay 

On  mine,  with  timorous  happiness, 
Your    fluttered  breath   and  faint  foot- 
fall, — 
Ah,  sweet,  I  hear,  I  see  them  all ! 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, 
And  backward  Time's  strange  current 
rolls. 

Till  life's  and  love's  auspicious  May 
Once  more  is  blooming  in  our  souls, 

And  larklike,  swell  the  songs  of  hope, 

Your  blissful  bridal  horoscope. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day,  — 

Yet  say,  did  those  fair  hopes  but  sing, 
Lapped  in  the  tuneful  morn  of  May, 
To  die  or  droop  on  faltering  wing, 
When     noontide     heats     and     evening 

chills 
Made  pale  the    flowers  and  veiled   the 
hills  ? 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, 
And    none   of    those    glad    hopes   of 
youth. 

Thrilled  to  its  height,  outpoured  a  lay 
To  match  our  future's  simple  truth: 

Though  deep  the  joy  of  vow  and  shrine, 

Our  wedded  calm  is  more  divine! 


O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day ! 

Life's     summer,     with     slow-waning 
beam, 
Tints  the  near  autumn's  cloud-land  gray 

To  softness  of  a  fairy  dream, 
Whence  peace  by  musing  pathos  kissed, 
Smiles  through  a  veil  of  golden  mist. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, 
The  conscious  winds  are  whispering 
low 

Those  passionate  secrets  of  the  Miy 
Fraught  with  your  kisses  long  ago ; 

Warm  memories  of  our  years  remote 

Are  trembling  in  the  mock-bird's  throat. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day,  — 
And  not  a  thrush  in  woodland  bowers, 

And  not  a  rivulet's  silvery  lay, 

Nor  tiny  bee-song  'mid  the  flowers, 

Nor  any  voice  of  land  or  sea, 

But  deepens  love  to  ecstasy  ! 

Our  wedding-day !    The  soul's  noontide! 

In  these  rare  words  at  watchful  rest 
What  sweet,  melodious  meanings  hide 

Like  birds  within  one  balmy  nest, 
Each  quivering  with  an  impulse  strong 
To  flood  all  heaven  and  earth  with  song! 


FROM   THE    WOODS. 

Why  should  I,  with  a  mournful,  mor- 
bid spleen, 
Lament  that  here,  in  this  half-desert 
scene. 
My  lot  is  placed  ? 
At  least  the  poet-winds  are  bold  and 

loud, — 
At  least  the  sunset  glorifies  the  cloud, 
And  forests  old  and  proud 
Rustle  their  verdurous  banners  o'er  the 
waste. 

Perchance  'tis  best  that  I,  whose  Fate's 
eclipse 

Seems  final,  —  I,  whose  sluggish  life- 
wave  slips 
Languid  away,  — 


DOLCE   FAR   NIENTE. 


115 


Should  here,  within  these  lowly  walks, 

apart 
From  the  fierce  throbbings  of  the  pop- 
ulous mart, 
Commune  with  mine  own  heart, 
While    Wisdom     blooms     from     buried 
Hope"s  decay. 

Nature,  though  wild  her  forms,  sus- 
tains me  still ; 
The  founts  are  musical,  —  the  barren 
hill 
Glows  with  strange  lights ; 
Through  solemn  pine-groves  the  small 

rivulets  fleet 
Sparkling,  as  if  a  Xaiad's  silvery  feet 
In  quick  and  coy  retreat. 
Glanced  through  the  star-gleams  on  calm 
summer  nights; 

And  the  great  sky,  the  royal  heaven 

above, 
Darkens   with   storms   or   melts  with 
hues  of  love ; 
While  far  remote. 
Just  where   the   sunlight   smites    the 

woods  with  fire, 
Wakens     the     multitudinous     sylvan 
choir; 
Their  innocent  love's  desire 
Poured  in  a  rill  of  song  from  each  har- 
monious throat. 

My  walls  are  crumbling,  but  immortal 

looks 
Smile  on  me  here  from  faces  of  rare 
books: 
Shakspeare  consoles 
My  heart  with  true  philosophies;   a 

balm 
Of  spiritual  dews  from  humbler  song 
or  psalm 
Fills  me  with  tender  calm, 
Or  through  hushed  heavens  of  soul  Mil- 
ton's deep  thunder  rolls! 

And    more    than    all,    o'er   shattered 

wrecks  of  Fate, 
The  relics  of  a  happier  time  and  state. 
My  nobler  life 


.Shines  on  unquenched!     O  deathless 

love  that  lies 
In  the  clear  midnight  of  those  passion- 
ate eyes ! 
Joy  waneth!    Fortune  flies! 
What  then?     Thou  still  art  here,  soul  of 
my  soul,  my  Wife ! 


DOLCE    FAR    SIF.XTE. 

Let  the  world  roll  blindly  on! 
Give  me  shadow,  give  me  sun, 
And  a  perfumed  eve  as  this  is: 

Let  me  lie, 

Dreamfully, 
When  the  last  quick  sunbeams  shiver 
Spears  of  light  athwart  the  river, 
And  a  breeze,  which  seems  the  sigh 
Of  a  fairy  floating  by, 

Coyly  kisses 
Tender  leaf  and  feathered  grasses; 
Yet  so  soft  its  breathing  passes, 
These  tall  ferns,  just  glimmering  o'er  me, 
Blending  goldenly  before  me. 

Hardly  quiver! 

I  have  done  with  worldly  scheming, 
Mocking  show  and  hollow  seeming! 

Let  me  lie 

Idly  here, 
Lapped  in  lulling  waves  of  air, 
Facing  full  the  shadowy  sky. 
Fame!  —  the  very  sound  is  dreary, — 
Shut,  O  soul !  thine  eyelids  weary, 
For  all  nature's  voices  say, 
'•  'Tis  the  close  —  the  close  of  day, 
Thought  and  grief  have  had  their  sway :  " 
Xow  Sleep  bares  her  balmy  breast,  — 

Whispering  low 
( Low  as  moon-set  tides  that  flow 
Up  still  beaches  far  awayr; 
While,  from  out  the  lucid  West, 
Flutelike  winds  of  murmurous  breath 
Sink  to  tender-panting  death). 
••  On  my  bosom  take  thy  rest; 
(Care  and  grief  have  had  their  day!) 
'Tis  the  hour  for  dreaming. 
Fragrant  rest,  elysian  dreaming!" 


116 


LEGENDS    AND   LYRICS. 


CAMBYSES  AND    THE  MACROBIAN 
BOW. 

One  morn,  hard  by  a  slumberous  stream- 
let's wave, 
The  plane-trees  stirless  in  the  unbreath- 

ing  calm, 
And  all  the  lush-red  roses  drooped  in 

dream. 
Lay  King  Cambyses,  idle  as  a  cloud 
That  waits  the  wind, —  aimless  of  thought 

and  will,  — 
But  with  vague  evil,  like  the  lightning's 

bolt 
Ere  yet  the  electric  death  be  forged  to 

smite. 
Seething  at  heart.     His  courtiers  ringed 

him  round, 
Whereof  was  one  who  to  his  comrades' 

ears, 
With  bated   breath  and  wonder-arched 

brows. 
Extolled  a  certain  Bactrian*s  matchless 

skill 
Displayed   in  bowcraf  t :    at  whose  mar- 
vellous feats. 
Eagerly  vaunted,  the  King's  soul  grew 

hot 
With  envy,  for  himself  erewhile  had  been 
Rated  the  mightiest  archer  in  his  realm. 
Slowly  he  rose,  and  pointing  southward, 

said, 
"  Seest  thou,  Prexaspes,  yonder  slender 

palm, 
A  mere  wan  shadow,  quivering  in  the 

light, 
Topped  by  a  ghastly  leaf-crown  '?    Pri- 
thee, now. 
Can  this,  thy  famous  Bactrian,  standing 

here, 
Cleave  with  his  shaft  a  hand's  breadth 

marked  thereon?" 
To  which   Prexaspes   answered,   "Nay, 

my  lord : 
1  spake   of  feats  compassed  by  mortal 

skill. 
Not  of   gods'   prowess."'     Unto    whom. 

the  King:  — 
"  And  if  myself,  Prexaspes,  made  essay, 


Think' st  thou,  wise  counsellor,  I  too 
should  fail?  " 

"  Needs  must  I,  sire,**  — albeit  the  court- 
ier's voice 

Trembled,  and  some  dark  prescience 
bade  him  pause,  — 

"  Needs  must  I  hold  such  cunning  more 
than  man's; 

And  for  the  rest,  I  pray  thy  pardon, 
King, 

But  yester-eve,  amid  the  feast  and  dance, 

Thou  tarried' st  with  the  beakers  over- 
long.*' 

The  thick,  wild,  treacherous  eyebrows  of 

the  King, 
That  looked  a  sheltering  ambush  for  ill 

thoughts 
Waxing  to  manhood  of  malignant  acts. 
These  treacherous  eyebrows,  pent-house 

fashion,  closed 
O'er  the  black  orbits  of  his  fiery  eyes,  — 
Which,  clouded  thus,  but  flashed  a  dead- 
lier gleam 
On  all  before  him:  suddenly  as  fire. 
Half  choked  and  smouldering  in  its  own 

dense  smoke, 
Bursts  into  roaring  radiance  and  swift 

flame. 
Touched   by  keen  breaths  of  liberating 

wind.  — 
So  now  Cambyses'  eyes  a  stormy  joy 
Stormily  filled;  for  on  Prexaspes'  son. 
His  first-born  son,  they  lingered,  —  a  fair 

boy 
('Midmost  his  fellow-pages  flushed  with 

sport), 
Who,  in  his  office  of  King's  cupbearer. 
So  gracious  and  so  sweet  were  all   his 

ways, 
Had  even  the  captious  sovereign  seemed 

to  please; 
While  for  the  court,  the  reckless,  revel- 
ling court. 
They  loved  him  one  and  all : 
'•  Go,"  said  Cambyses  now,  his  voice  a 

hiss, 
Poisonous  and  low.  '•go,  bind  my  dainty 

page 


CAMBYSES   AND    THE    MACROBIAN  BOW. 


117 


To  yonder  palm-tree ;  bind  him  fast  and 

sure. 
So  that  no  finger  stirreth ;  which  being 

done. 
Fetch    me,    Prexaspes,    the    Macrobian 

bow."' 

Thus  ordered,  thus  accomplished,  fast 
they  bound 

The  innocent  child,  the  while  that  mam- 
moth bow, 

Brought  by  the  spies  from  Ethiopian 
camps, 

Lay  in  the  King's  hand;  slowly,  sternly 
up, 

He  reared  it  to  the  level  of  his  sight, 

Eeared,  and  bent  back  its  oaken  massive- 
ness 

Till  the  vast  muscles,  tough  as  grape- 
vines, bulged 

From  naked  arm  and  shoulder,  and  the 
horns 

Of  the  fierce  weapon  groaning,  almost 
met, 

When,  with  one  lowering  glance  askance 
at  him,  — 

His  doubting  satrap,  —  the  King  coolly 
said, 

"Prexaspes,  look,  my  aim  is  at  the 
heart !  " 

Then   came  the   sharp  twang  and   the 

deadly  whirr 
Of  the  loosed  arrow,  followed  by  the  dull, 
Drear  echo  of  a  bolt  that  smites  its  mark; 
And  those  of   keenest  vision  shook  to 

see 
The  fair  child  fallen  forward  across  his 

bonds. 
With  all  his  limbs  a-quivering.     Quoth 

the  King, 
Clapping  Prexaspes'  shoulder,  as  in  glee, 
"Go  thou,  and  tell  me  how  that  shaft 

hath  sped! " 
Forward   the  wretched  father,  step   by 

step. 
Crept,  as  one  creeps  whom  black  Hadean 

dreams. 
Visions  of  fate  and  fear  unutterable, 


Draw,  tranced  and  rigid,  towards  some 

definite  goal 
Of  horror;   thus  he  went,  and  thus  he 

saw 
What  never  in  the  noontide  or  the  night, 
Awake  or  sleeping,  idle  or  in  toil, 
'Neath  the  wild  forest  or  the  perfumed 

lamps 
Of  palaces,  shall  leave  his  stricken  sight 
Unblasted,  or  his  spirit  purged  of  woe. 

Prexaspes   saw,  yet   lived;  saw,  and  re- 
turned 
Where  still  environed  by  his  dissolute 

court. 
Cambyses  leaned,  half  scornful,  on  his 

bow: 
The  old  man's  face  was  riven  and  white 

as  death; 
But  making  meek  obeisance  to  his  King, 
He  smiled  (ah,  such  a  smile!)  and  feebly 

said. 
"  What  am  I,  mighty  master,  what  am  7. 
That  I  durst  question  my  lord's  strength 

and  skill  ? 
His  arrows  are  like  arrows  of  the  god, 
Egyptian  Horus,  —  and  for  proof,  —  but 

now, 
I  felt  a  child's  heart  (once  a  child  was 

mine, 
'Tis  my  Lord's  now  and  Death's),  all 

mute  and  still, 
Pierced  by  his    shaft,   and    cloven,   ye 

gods!  in  twain! " 

Then  laughed  the  great  King  loudly,  till 

his  beard 
Quivered,    and    all    his    stalwart    body 

shook 
With  merriment;   but  when  his  mirth 

was  calmed, 
"  Thou  art  forgiven,"  said  he,  "forgiv- 
en, old  man; 
Only  when  next  these  Persian  dogs  shall 

call 
Cambyses    drunkard,    rise,    Prexaspes, 

rise ! 
And  tell  them  how.  and  to  what  purpose, 

once, 


118 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Once,  on  a  morn  which  followed  hot  and 
wan 

A  night  of  monstrous  revel  and  de- 
bauch, 

Cambyses  bent  this  huge  Macrobian 
bow.'' 


BY   THE  AUTUMN  SEA. 

Fair  as  the  dawn  of  the  fairest  day, 
Sad  as  the  evening's  tender  gray, 
By  the  latest  lustre  of  snnset  kissed, 
That  wavers  and  wanes  through  an  am- 
ber mist, 
There  cometh  a  dream  of  the  past  to  me, 
On  the  desert  sands,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

All  heaven  is  wrapped  in  a  mystic  veil, 
And  the  face  of  the  ocean  is  dim  and 

pale, 
And  there  rises  a  wind  from  the  chill 

northwest, 
That  seemeth  the  wail  of  a  soul's  unrest, 
As   the   twilight   falls,    and   the   vapors 

flee 
Far  over  the  wastes  of  the  autumn  sea. 

A    single    ship    through    the   gloaming 

glides 
Upborne   on   the   swell  of    t lie  seaward 

tides ; 
And   above  the  gleam  of  her  topmost 

spar 
Are  the  virgin  eyes  of  the  vesper-star 
That  shine  with  an  angel's  ruth  on  me, 
A  hopeless  waif,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

The   wings   of   the   ghostly  beach-birds 

gleam 
Through  the  shimmering  surf,  and  the 

curlew's  scream 
Falls  faintly  shrill  from  the  darkening 

height ; 
The  first  weird  sigh  on  the  lips  of  Xight 
Breathes  low  through  the  sedge  and  the 

blasted  tree. 
With  a  murmur  of  doom,  by  the  autumn 

sea. 


Oh,  sky-enshadowed  and  yearning  main, 
Your   gloom   but    deepens   this   human 

pain ; 
Those  waves  seem  big  with  a  nameless 

care, 
That  sky  is  a  type  of  the  heart's  despair, 
As  I  linger  and  muse  by  the  sombre  lea, 
And  the  night  shades  close  on  the  au- 
tumn sea. 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY. 

[Suggested  by  the  Frankeleine's  Tale  of 
Chaucer.] 

PROEM. 

Truth   wed    to   beauty   in  an   antique 

tale, 
Sweet-voiced  like  some  immortal  night- 
ingale. 
Trills  the  clear  burden  of  her  passsionate 

lay, 
As  fresh,  as  fair  as  wonderful  to-day 
As  when  the  music  of  her  balmy  tongue 
Kavished  the  first  warm  hearts  for  whom 
she  sung. 

Thus,  when  the  early  spring-dawn  buds 
are  green, 

Glistening  beneath  the  sudden  silvery 
sheen 

Of  glancing  showers;  while  heaven  with 
bridegroom-kiss 

Wakens  the  virgin  earth  to  bloom  and 
bliss, 

Enamored  breathing  and  soft  raptures 
born 

About  the  roseate  footsteps  of  the  morn. 

An  old-world  song,  whose  breezy  music 
pours 

Through  limpid  channels  'twixt  en- 
chanted shores, 

Steals  on  me  wooing]  y  from  that  far 
time 

When  tuneful  Chaucer  wrought  his 
lusty  rhyme 

Into  rare  shapes  and  fancies  and  delight, 

For  May  winds  blithely  blew,  and  haw- 
thorn flowers  were  bright. 


"There  eonieth  a  dream  of  the  past  to  me, 
On  the  desert  sands  by  the  autumn  sea.'' 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY 


119 


O  brave   old    poet!    genius  frank  and   \   But  born  to  such   rare  state  and  sover- 


bold ! 


eignsy, 


.Sustain    me,   cherish    and    around    ine       He  hardly   durst   before  her  bend   the 


fold 


knee 


Thine  own  hale,  sun-warm  atmosphere   ,    In  passion's  ardor  and  keen  heart  dis- 


of  sonar, 


tress ; 


Lest  I,  who  touch  thy  numbers,  do  thee   i    Still,  at  the  last,  his  loyal  worthiness 


wrong ; 

Speed  the  deep  measure,  make  the  mean- 
ing shine 

Ruddy  and  high  with  healthful  spirit 
wine, 

Till  to  attempered  sense  and  quickening 
ears 

My  strain  some  faint  harmonious  echo 
bears 

From  that  rich  realm  wherein  thy  cor- 
dial art 

Throbbed  with  its  pulse  of  fire  'gainst 
youthful  England's  heart. 

THE   STORY. 

Wheke  the  hoarse  billows  of  the  north- 
land  Sea 

Sweep  the  rude  coast  of  rockbound  Brit- 
tany, 

Dwelt,  ages  since,  a  knight  whose  war- 
rior-fame 

Might  well  have  struck  all  carpet-knights 
with  shame ; 

Yowed  to  great  deeds  and  princely  man- 
hood, he 

Burgeoned  the  topmost-flower  of  chiv- 
alry ; 

Yet  gentle-hearted,  nursed  one  delicate 
thought 

Fixed  firm  in  love :  with  anxious  pain  he 
sought 

To  serve  his  lady  in  the  noblest  wise, 

And  many  a  labor,  many  a  grand  em- 
prise 

He  wrought  ere  that  sweet  lady  could  be 
won. 

She  was  a  maiden  bright-aired  as  the 
sun. 

And  graceful  as  the  tall  lake-lilies  are 

Flushed  'twixtthe  twilight  and  the  ves- 
per-star; 


And    mild    obeisance,    his   observance 

high 
Of  manly  faith,  firm  will,  and  constancy 
Aroused    an     answering    pity    to    his 

sighs, 
Till  pity,  grown  to  love,   beamed  forth 

from  genial  eyes. 

Thus  with  pure  trust,  and  cheerful  calm 

accord, 
She  made  this  gentle  suitor  her  soul's 

lord ; 
And  he.  that  thence  their  happy  fates 

should  stray 
Through  pastures  beauteous  as  the  fields 

of  May, 
Swore  of  his  own  free  mind  to  use  the 

right 
Her  mercy  gave  him,  with  no  churlish 

might. 
Xor  e'er  in  wanton  freaks  of  mastery, 
Ire-bred    perverseness,  or    sharp    jeal- 
ousy, 
Yex  the   clear-flowing   current   of  her 

clays. 
She  thanked  him  in  a  hundred  winning 

ways : 
"And  I,"  she  said,  "will  be  thy  loyal 

wife ; 
Take  here  my  vows,  my  solemn  troth 

for  life.  " 

On  a  June  morning,  when  the  verdurous 

woods 
Flushed  to  the  core  of  dew-lit  solitudes, 
Murmured     almost   as   w'th    a  human 

feeling, 
Tenderly,  low,  to  frolic  breezes  stealing 
Through  dappled  shades  and  depths  of 

dainty  fern. 
Crushed  here  and  there  by   some  low- 
whimpering  burn, 


120 


LEGENDS   AND   ETHICS. 


These   twain   were  wedded  at   a  forest 

shrine. 
O  saffron-vested  Hymen  the  divine! 
Did  aught  of  gloom  or  boding  shadow 

weigh 
Upon  thy  blushing   consciousness  that 

day  ? 
ISTo!  thy  frank  face  breathed  only  hope 

ami  love; 
Earth   laughed    in    wave   and    leaf,    all 

heaven  was  fair  above. 

Home  to  the  land  wherein  the  knight 
was  born 

Blithely  they  rode  upon  the  morrow- 
morn, 

Not  far  from  Penmark;  there  they  lived 
in  ease 

And  solace  of  matured  felicities, 

Until  Arviragus  whose,  soul  of  fire 

Not  even  fruition  of  his  love's  desire 

Could  till  with  languorous  idlesse,  cut 
the  tie, 

Which  bound  to  silken  dalliance  sud- 
denly. 

Sailing  the  straits  for  England's  war- 
torn  strand. 

There  ampler  bays  to  pluck  from  vic- 
tory's "  red  right  hand.  " 

But  Iolene,  fond  Iolene,  whose  heart 

Can  beat  no  longer,  lonely  and  apart 

From  him  she  loves,  save  with  a  sicken- 
ing stress 

Of  fear  o'erwrought  and  brooding  ten- 
derness, 

Mourns  for  his  absence  with  soul-weary- 
ing plaint, 

Slow,  pitiful  tears  and  midnight  mur- 
murings  faint, 

And  thus  the  whole  world  sadly  sets  at 
naught. 

Meanwhile  her  friends,  who  guess  what 
can  ke  r-thought 

Preys  on  her  quiet,  with  a  mild  essay 

Strive  to  subdue  her  passion's  torturing 
sway : 

"Beware!  beware,  sweet  lady,  thou  wilt 
slay 


Thy  reason!  nay  thy  very  life's  at  stake! 
By  love,  and  love's  dear  pleadings,  for 

his  sake 
"Who  yearns   to  clasp   thee  scathless  to 

his  breast, 
We  pray  thee,  soothe  these  maddening 

cares  to  rest!" 

Even  as  the  patient  graver  on  a  stone, 
Laboring  with  tireless  Angers,  sees  anon 
The  shape  embodying  his  rare  fancies 

grow 
And  lighten,  thus  upon  her  stubborn  woe 
Their  tireless  comforts  wrought,  until  a 

trust, 
Clear-eyed     and    constant,    raised    her 

from  the  dust 
And  ashy  shroud  of  sorrow;  her  despair 
Gave  place  to  twilight  gladness  and  soft 

cheer 
Confirmed  ere  long  by  letters  from  her 

love: 
''  Dear  Iolene!  "  he  wrote,  "  thou  tender 

dove 
That   tremblest   in    thy   chilly  nest    at 

home, 
Prithee   embrace  meek  patience   till    I 

come. 
Lo,  the  swift  winds  blow  freshening  o'er 

the  sea, 
From  out  the  sunset  isles  I  speed  to  rest 

with  thee! " 

The  knight's  ancestral  home  stood  grim 

and  tall 
Beyond  its  shadowy  moat  and  frowning 

Avail ; 
It  topped   a  gradual    summit    crowned 

with  fir. 
Green    murmurous    myrtle,    and    wild 

juniper. 
Fronting  a  long,  rude,  solitary  strand, 
Whereon   the  earliest   sunbeam,   like  a 

hand 
Of  tremulous  benediction,  rested  bland, 
And  warmly  quivering;   o'er  the  wave- 
worn  lea 
Gleamed  the  broad  spaces  of  the  open 

sea. 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY, 


121 


Now   often,   with   her    pitying    friends 

Her  friends  perceiving  that  this  seaside 

heside, 

walk. 

She    walked    the    desolate    heaeh    and 

Though  gay  and  jovial  their  unstudied 

watched  the  tide, 

talk, 

Forth  looking  through  unconscious  tears 

But  dashed  her  dubious  spirits,  kindly 

to  view 

took 

Sail  after  sail  pass  shimmering  o'er  the 

And  led  her  where  the  blossom-bordered 

blue ; 

brook 

And  to  herself,  ofttimes,  "Alas!''  said 

Babbled    through   woodlands,   and    the 

she, 

limpid  pool 

"  Is  there  no  ship,  of  all  these  ships  I  see, 

Lay  crouched   like  some   shy  Xaiad  in 

Will  bring  me  home  my  lord  ?   Woe,  woe 

the  cool 

is  me ! 

Of    mossy  glades;    or  when   a  tedious 

Though  winds  blow  fresh,  and  sea-birds 

hour 

skim  the  main, 

Pressed  on  her  with  its  dim,  lethargic 

Thou  still  delay' st,  my  liege!    Ah,  v:ilt 

power, 

thou  come  again  ?*' 

They  wooed   her  with   glad  games    or 

jocund  song, 

Sometimes  would  she,  half-dreaming,  sit 

Till  the  dull   demon  ceased  to  do  her 

and  think, 

wrong. 

Casting  her  dark  eyes  downward  from 

the  brink ; 

So,  on  a  pleasant  May  morn,  while  the 

And   when  she  saw  those  grisly  rocks 

dew 

beneath, 

Sparkled  on  tiny  hedgerow-flowers   of 

Round  which  the  pallid  foam,  in  many 

blue, 

a  wreath 

Passing  through  many  a  sun-brown  orch- 

White  as   the  lips   of    passion,   faintly 

ard-field. 

curled. 

They  reach  a  fairy  pleasaunce,  which 

Her  thoughts  would  pierce  to  the  drear 

revealed 

under-world, 

Such     prospects     into    breezy     inland 

'Mid       shipwrecks      wandering,       and 

vales. 

bleached  bones  of  those 

The  natural  haunt  of  plaining  nightin- 

O'er whom  the  unresting  ocean  ebbs  and 

gales, 

flows ; 

Such    verdant,    grassy    plots,    through 

And  though  the  shining  waters  hushed 

which  there  rolled 

and  deep, 

A    gleeful    rivulet   glimpsing  sands   of 

Might  slumber  like  an  innocent  child 

gold, 

asleep, 

And  winding  slow  by  clumps  of  plumed 

From  out  the  Xorth  her  prescient  fancy 

pines, 

raised 

Eich   realms  of  bay,  and  gorgeous  jas- 

Huge   ghostlike    clouds,    and    spectral 

mine-vines, 

lightnings  blazed 

That    none   who   strayed   to    that   fair 

I'  th'  van  of  phantom  thunder,  and  the 

flowery  place 

roar 

Had  paused  in  wonder    if    its    sylvan 

Of  multitudinous  waters  on  the  shore, 

grace, 

Heard  as  in  dreadful  trance  its  billowy 

Embodied,  beauteous,  with  an  arch  em- 

swells 

brace 

Blent  with  the  mournful   tone  of    far 

Had  stopped,  and  smiling,  kissed  them 

funereal  bells! 

face  to  face. 

LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


A   buoyant,  blithesome  company    were 

they. 
Grouped  round  the  pleasaunce  on  that 

morn  of  May; 
Wit.    song,  and   rippling   laughter,  and 

arch  looks 
That   might  have  lured  the  wood-gods 

from  their  nooks. 
Echoed  and  flashed  like  dazzling  arrows 

tipped 
With  amorous  heat;  and  now  and  then 

there  slipped 
From  out  the  whirling  ring  of  jocund 

girls, 
Wreathing  white  arms  and  tossing  wan- 
ton curls, 
Some  maiden  who  with  momentary  mien 
Of  coy  demureness  bent  o'er  Iolene, 
And  whispered  sunniest  nothings  in  her 

ear. 

First  'mid  the  brave  gallants  assembling 

there 
Aurelian  came,  a  squire  of  fair  degree. 
Tall,  vigorous,  handsome,  his  whole  air 

so  free. 
Yet  courteous,  and  such  princely  sweet- 
ness blent 
With  every  well-timed,  graceful  compli- 
ment, 
That  sooth  to  speak,  where'er  Aurelian 

went. 
To  turbulent  tilt-yard  and  baronial  hall. 
Sporting  afield  or  at  high  festival, 
Favor,  like  sunshine,  filled  his  heart  and 
eyes. 

Thus  nobly  gifted,  high-born,   opulent, 

wise. 
One  hidden  curse  was  his:  for  troublous 

years,* 
Secretly,   swayed   in  turn  by  hopes  and 

fears, 


*We  are  to  suppose  that  Aurelian  had  seen 
Iolene  previous  to  her  marriage,  and  that  cir- 
cumstances had  prevented  his  becoming  inti- 
mate with  her,  or  in  any  way  prosecuting  his 
suit  honestly  and  frankly. 


And   all   unknown   to  her,  his  heart's 

desire. 
This  youth  had  loved  with  wild,  deliri- 
ous fire. 
The  lonely,  sad,  unconscious  Iolene. 
He  durst  not  show  how  love  had  brought 

him  teen, 
Xor  prove  how  deep  his  passion's  inward 

might; 
Thinking,  half  maddened,  on  her  absent 

knight ; 
Save    that    the    burden   of   a  love-lorn 

lay 
"Would   somewhat  of    his  stifled    flame 

betray. 
But  in  those  vague  complainings  poets 

use, 
When  charging  Love  with  outrage  and 

abuse 
Of  his  all-potent  witchery.     "  Ah,''  said 

he. 
'•  I  love,  but  ever  love  despondently; 
For  though  one  vision  haunts  me,  and  I 

burn 
To  hold  that  dream  incarnated,  I  yearn 
In  vain,  in  vain;  love  breathes  no  bland 

return ! ' ' 

Thus  only  did  Aurelian  strive  to  show 
What  pangs  of  hidden  passion  worked 

below 
The  surface  calmness  of  his  front  serene ; 
Unless   perhaps   he   met   his   beauteous 

Queen, 
Scarce  brightening  at  the  banquet  or  the 

dance; 
When,  with  a  piercing  yet  half-piteous 

glance, 
His   eyes   would   search,  then  strangely 

shun  her  face, 
As  one  condemned,  who  fears  to  sue  for 

grace. 

Hut  on  this  self-same  day,  when  home 

ward  bound, 
Her  footsteps  sought  the  loneliest  path 

that  wound 
Through  tangled  copses  to  the  upland 

ground 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY. 


123 


And  orchard  close,  —  her  fair  compan- 
ions kissed 

With  tearful  thanks,  and  all  kind  friends 
dismissed,  — 

As  o'er  a  billowy  field  of  ripened  wheat 
One  sees  perchance  the  spectral  shadows 

meet, 
Cast  by  a  darkened  heaven  whose  lower- 

Aurelian, who  the  secret  pathway  knew, 
Through  the  dense  growth  and  shrouded 

ing  hush 
Broods,  thunder-charged,  above  its  gold- 

foliage drew 

en  flush.  — 

Xear  the  pale  Queen,  the  lady  of  his 
dreams : 

So,  a  dark  wonder,  a  sublime  suspense, 
Of  gathering  wrath  at   this  wild  inso- 

The evening's   soft,   pathetic    splendor 
streams 

lence. 
Dimmed  the  mild  glory  of  her  brow  and 

O'er  her  clear  forehead  and  her  chestnut 

hair, 
All  glorified  as  in  celestial  air; 

lips ; 
Her  beauty,  more  majestic  in  eclipse, 
Shone  with  that  awful  lustre  which  of 

But  the  dark  eyes  a  wistful  light  con- 
fessed, 

old. 
In  the  gods'  temples  and  the  fanes  of 

And  some  soft  murmuring  fancies  heaved 
her  breast 

gold, 
Blazed  in  the  Pythia's  face,  and  shook 

Benignly,  like  enamored  tides  that  rise 
And  sink  melodious  to  the  west  wind's 

her  form 
With    throes    of    baleful    prophecy;     a 

sighs. 

storm 
She  stood  incarnate,  in  whose  ominous 

He  gazed,  and  the  long  passion  he  had 
nursed. 

gloom 
Throbbed  the  red  lightning  on  the  verge 

Impetuous,  sudden,  unrestrained,  o'er- 
hurst 

of  doom. 

All  bounds  of  custom  and  enforced  re- 

But as  a  current  of  soft  air,  unfelt 

straint  : 
'•  0  lady,  hear  me:  I  am  deadly  faint, 
Yet  wild  with  love !  such  love  as  forces 

On  the  lower  earth,  is  seen  ere  long  to 

melt 
The  up-piled  surge  of   tempests  slowly 

man 

driven 

To  beard  conventions,  trample  on  the 
ban 

In  scattered  vapors  through  the  deeps  of 
heaven. 

Of  partial  laws,  spurn  with  contemptuous 
hate 

Whate'er  would  bar  or  blight  his  bliss- 
ful fate. 

Thus  a  serener  thought  tenderly  played 
Across  her  spirit;  its  portentous  shade, 
Big  with  unuttered  wrath  and  meanings 
dire, 

And  in  the  feverous  frenzy  of  bis  zeal, 
Even  from  the  shrinking  flower  he  dotes 

Began  with  slow,  wan  pulsings  to  expire; 
A    far    ethereal    voice    she    seemed    to 

on,  steal 

hear 

Blush,  fragrance,  and  heart-dew !     For- 

Luting its  merciful  accents  in  her  ear, 

give!  forgive! 
What!  have  I  dared  to  tell  thee  this,  to 

Subtly  harmonious :  ''Yea,'*  she  thought, 
•■  in  truth, 

live 

A  rage,  a  madness  holds  him,  the  poor 

For  aye  hereafter  in  thy  cold  regard? 
Yet  veil  thy  scorn ;  nor  make  more  cold 
and  hard 

youth 
Is  drunk  with  passion !     Shall  I,  deeply 
blessed 

The  anguished  life  now  cowering  at  thy 

By  all  love's  sweets,  its  balm  and  trustful 

feet." 

rest. 

12- 


LEUENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


Crush  the  less  fortunate  spirit!  utterly 

Blight  and  destroy  him,  all  for  lore  of 
me  f 

His  hopes,  if  hopes  he  hath,  must  surely 
die; 

Still  would  I  nip  their  blossoms  tenderly, 

With  a  slight,  airy  frost-bite  of  eon- 
tempt. 

God's  mercy,  good  .Sir  Squire,  art  thou 
exempt 

Of  courtesy  as  of  reason  ?  What  weird 
spell 

Doth  work  this  madness  in  thee  and 
compel 

Thy  nobler  nature  to  such  base  de- 
spites  ? 

Forsooth,  thou"lt  blush  some  day  the 
flower  of  knights, 

Should  this  thy  budding  A'irtue  was  and 
grow 

To  natural  consummation!  Come!  thy 
flow 

Of  weak  self-ruth  might  shame  the  veri- 
est child, 

A  six  years'  peevish  urchin:  whimpering 
wild, 

And  scattering  his  torn  lucks,  because 
afar 

He  sees  and  yearns  to  clasp,  but  cannot 
clasp,  a  star! " 

She  ceased,  with  shame  and  pity  weigh- 
ing down 

Her  dovelike  lids  demurely,  and  a 
frown 

Just  struggling  faintly  with  as  faint  a 
smile 

(For  the  mute  trembling  squire  still 
knelt  the  while) 

Round  the  arch  dimples  of  her  rosy 
mouth; 

Whereon,  in  fitful  fashion,  like  the 
South 

Which  sweeps  with  petulant  wing  a  field 
of  blooms, 

Then  dies  a  heedless  death  'mong  gold- 
en brooms 

And  lavish  shrubbery,  briefly  she  re- 
sumes, 


With  quick-drawn  breath,  the  courses 
of  her  speech : 

';Aurelian,  rise!  Behold* st  thou  yon- 
der beach, 

And  the  blue  waves  beyond  ?  those 
bristling  rocks. 

O'er  which  the  chafed  sea,  in  quick  thun- 
der-shocks. 

Leaps  passionate,  panting  through  the 
showery  spray, 

Roaring  defiance  to  the  calm-eyed  day  ? 

Ah.  well,  fantastic  boy!  I  blithely 
swear 

When  yon  rude  coast  beneath  us  rises 
'  clear 

(Down  to  the  farthest  bounds  of  wild 
Bretaigne), 

Of  that  black  rampart  darkening  sky 
and  main. 

I'll  pay  thy  vows  with  answering  vows 
again. 

And  be  —  God  save  the  mark!  —  thy 
paramour.'' 

Her  words  struck  keen  and  deep,  even 
to  the  core 

Of  the  rash  listener's  soul;  they  seemed 
to  lie 

More  fatal  in  their  careless  irony 

Than  it  the  levin  bolt,  hurled  from 
above, 

Had  slain  at  once  Ins  manhood  and  his 
love. 

What  more  he  felt  in  sooth  'twere  vain 
to  tell; 

He  only  heard  her  whispering,  "  Fare- 
thee-well. 

And  Heaven  assoil  thee  of  all  sinful  sor- 
row!'' 

Then  with  a  grace  and  majesty  which 
borrow 

Fresh  lustrous  sweetness  from  an  inward 
stress 

And  hidden  motion  of  chaste  gentle- 
ness. 

She  glideth  like  some  beauteous  cloud 
apart ; 

Aurehan  saw  her  pass  with  yearning 
pangs  at  heart. 


THE   WIFE   OF  BRITTANY.                                  125 

PAET   II. 

Then,  like  a  wounded  bird  by  the  rude 

wind 

Soul-epochs  are  there,  when  grief's  piti- 

Clutched  and   borne  onward,  tortured, 

less  storm 

reckless,  blind, 

O'erwhelms  the  amazed  spirit;  when  the 

Too  frail  to  struggle  with  that  passion- 

warm 

ate  blast, 

Exultant  heart  whose  hopes  were  brave 

We  take  wild,  wavering  courses,  and  at 

and  high. 

last 

Shrinks  in  the   darkness   withering  all 

Are   dashed,  it   may  be,  on   the   rocky 

its  sky: 

verge, 

"  Those  bristling  rocks, 
O'er  which  the  chafed  sea,  in  quick  thunder-shocks, 
Leaps  passionate,  panting  through  the  showery  spray." 


Or  hurled  o'er  the  unknown  and  perilous 

surge 
Of  some  dark  doom,  when,  bruised  and 

tempest-tost, 
We   sink   in   turbulent  eddies,  and   are 

lost. 

Urged  by  a  mood  thus  desperate,  care- 
less what 

Thenceforth  befell  him,  from  that  hate- 
ful spot, 

The  scene  of  such  stern  anguish  and  de- 
spair, 

Aurelian  rushed,  he  knew  not,  recked 
not.  Mil  ere. 


All  night  he  wandered  in  the  forest  drear. 
Till  on  the  pale  phantasmal  front  of  morn 
The    first     thin     flickering    day-gleam 

glanced  forlorn, 
Wan   as   the  wraith  of  perished  hopes, 

the  ghost 
Of  wishes  long  sustained  and  fostered 

most, 
Xow  gone   for   evermore.     "O   Christ! 

that  I," 
He  muttered  hoarsely,  ' '  might  unsought 

for  lie 
Here,  in  the  dismal  shadows  and  dank 

grass, 
And  close  my  heavy  eyelids,  and  so  pass 


126 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


With  one  brief  struggle  from  the  world 

of  men, 
Never   to    grieve    or    languish, — never 

again ! 
Never  to  sow  live  seeds  of  expectation 
And  joyous  promise,  to  reap  desolation; 
But  as  the  seasons  ny,  snow- wreathed,  or 

crowned 
With  odorous  garlands,  rest  in  the  mute 

ground, 
Peaceful,  oblivious,  —  a  Lethean  cloud 
Wrapped  round  my  faded  senses  like  a 

shroud, 
And  all  earth's  turmoil  and  its  juggling 

show 
Dead  as  a  dream  dissolved  ten  thousand 

years  ago ! ' ' 

Long,  long  revolving  his  sad  thoughts  he 

stood, 
When  gleefully  from  out  the  lightening 

wood 
Came  the  sharp  ring  of  horn  and  echoing 

steed ; 
A  score  of  huntsmen,   scouring  at  full 

speed, 
Flashed  like  a  brilliant  meteor  o'er  the 

scene, 
In  royal  pomp  of  glimmering  gold  and 

green ; 
Whereat,  with  wrathful  gestures,  'neath 

the  dome 
Of  the  old  wood  he  hastened  towards  his 

borne, 
Where  day  by  day  he  grew  more  woeful- 
pale. 
Calling  on  Heaven  unheard  to  ease  his 

bale. 

Among  his  kinsfolk,  many  in  hot  haste, 
To  salve  an  unknown  wound  with  balms 

misplaced, 
Came   the   squire's   brother,   Curio, — a 

wise  scribe, 
Modest  withal,  and  nobler  than  his  tribe; 
With  heart  as  loving  as  his  brain  was 

wise : 
He  could  not  see  with  cold,  indifferent 

eyes 


Aurelian  pass  to  madness  or  the  grave, 

While  care  and  wit  of  man  perchance 
might  save; 

So,  pondering  o'er  what  seemed  a  des- 
perate case, 

At  length  there  leapt  into  bis  kindling 
face 

The  flush  of  a  bright  thought.  "  By 
Heaven ! ' '  cried  he, 

''  O  brother,  there  may  still  be  hope  for 
thee ; 

Therefore,  take  heart  of  grace,  for  what 
I  tell 

Doubtless  preludes  a  health-inspiring 
spell ; 

And  thou,  released  from  this  long,  sor- 
rowful blight, 

Shalt  feel  the  stir  of  joy,  and  bless  the 
morning  light. 

"Ten  years  —  ten  centuries  sometimes 

they  would  seem  — 
Passed    idly  o'er    me    like    a    mystic's 

dream; 
Ten  years  agone,  when  these  dull  locks 

of  mine 
Flowed    round   broad   shoulders  with  a 

perfumed  shine, 
And  life's  clear  glass  o'erbrimmed  with 

purpling  wine. 
I  met  in  Orleans  a  shrewd  clerk-at-law, 
One  all  his  comrades  loved,  yet  viewed 

with  awe, 
To  whom  the  deepest   lore  of   antique 

ages, 
The    stored    secrets    of    old   seers    and 

sages 
In     Greece,    or     Ind,     or     Araby,     lay 

bare ; 
From  out  the  vacant  kingdoms  of  the 

air, 
He  could  at  will   call    forth  a  hundred 

forms, 
Hideous   or   lovely;   the    wild  wrath  of 

storms ; 
The    zephyr's    sweetness;    bird,    beast, 

wave,  obeyed 
The  luminous   signs  his   slender  wand 

conveyed, 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY 


Vll 


At  whose  weird  touch  men  sick  in  flesh 

or  brain 
Became  their  old,  bright,  hopeful  selves 

again. 
Aurelian,  rise !  shake  off  this  vile  disease, 
And  ride  with  me  to   Orleans;   an'  it 

please 
God  and  our  Lady,  we  may  chance  to 

meet 
Mine  ancient  comrade,  who  with  deftest 

feat 
Of  magic  skill  may  cut  the  Gordian  knot 
That  long  hath  bound,  and  darkly  binds 

thy  lot." 

"But,"    said   Aurelian,   with  a  listless 

turn 
Of   his   drooped  head,   and    wandering 

eyes  that  burn 
With  a  quick  feverish  brilliance,  "dost 

thou  speak 
Of  thine    own   knowledge,   when  thou 

bid' st  me  seek 
This  rare  magician  '?    Hast  thou  looked 

on  alight 
Of    all    the    mighty    marvels    he   hath 

wrought  ? ' ' 

"  Yea!  I  bethink  me  how,  one  summer's 
day, 

He  led  me  through  the  city  gates,  away 

To  the  dark  hollows  'neath  a  lonely  hill: 

So  hushed  the  noontide,  and  so  breath- 
less-still 

The  drowsy  air,  the  voice  of  one  far 
stream 

Came  like  thin  whispers  murmuring  in 
a  dream ; 

The  blithesome  grasshopper,  his  sense 
half  closed 

To  all  his  verdurous  luxury,  reposed 

Pendent  upon  the  quivering,  spearlike 
grain ; 

Steeped  in  the  mellow  sunshine's  noise- 
less rain, 

All  Nature  slept;  alone  the  matron 
wren, 

From  the  thick  coverts  of  her  thorny 
den, 


Teased  the  hot  silence  with  her  twitter- 
ing low : 

My  inmost  soul  accordant,  seemed  to 
grow 

Languid  and  dumb  within  that  mystic 
place. 

At  length  the  "Wizard's  hand  across  my 
face 

Was  waved  with  gentle  motion;  a  vague 
mist 

Flickered  before  me,  on  a  sudden  kissed 

To  warmth  and  glory  by  an  influence 
bright ; 

The  strangest  glamour  hovered  o'er  my 
sight, 

Wherethrough  I  saw,  methought,  a 
palace  proud, 

Crowned  by  a  lightning-veined  thunder- 
cloud, 

Whose  wreaths  of  vapory  darkness 
gleamed  with  eyes 

Of  multitudinous  shifting  fantasies; 

Its  pinnacles  like  diamond  spars  out- 
shone 

The  starry  splendors  of  an  orient 
zone ; 

And,  leading  towards  its  lordly  entrance, 
rose 

Through  slow  gradations  to  its  marbled 
close, 

White  terraces  where  golden  sunflowers 
bloomed ; 

Above  a  ponderous  portal  archway 
loomed, 

High-columned,  quaint,  majestical:  we 
passed 

Within  that  palace,  gorgeous,  wild,  and 
vast. 

Ah !  blessed  saints !  what  wonders  weirdly 
blent 

Did  smite  me  with  a  hushed  astonish- 
ment! 

A  troop  of  monsters  couchant  lined  our 
path, 

Their  tawny  manes  and  eyes  of  fiery 
wrath 

Erect  and  blazing;  an  unearthly  roar 

Of  fury,  shaking  vaulted  roof  and 
floor, 


128 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Burst   from   each    savage,    inarticulate 

throat, 
Iu  sullen  echoings  lost  through  halls  and 

courts  remote. 

"At  the  far  end  of  glimmering  colon- 
nades 

That  gleamed  gigantic  through  the  dusky 
shades, 

Two  mighty  doors  swept  backward  noise- 
lessly ; 

There  heaved  beyond  us  a  vast  laboring 
sea ; 

Not  vacant,  for  a  stately  vessel  bore 

Swift  down  the  threatening  tides  that 
flashed  before, 

Thronged   with    black-bearded    Titans, 
such  as  moved 

In  far-off  times  heroic,  well-beloved 

Of  the  old  gods;  there  at  his  stalwart 
ease, 

Shouldering  his  knotted  club,  great  Her- 
cules 

Towered,  his  fierce  eyes  touched  to  dewy 
light, 

And  rapt  on  Ilylas,  who,  serenely  bright, 

With  intense  gaze  uplifted,  tranced  and 
mute, 

Heard,  in  ecstatic  reverie,  the  lute 

Of  Orpheus  plaining  to  the  waves  that 
bow 

And  dance  subsiding  round  the  blazoned 
prow; 

Till  the  rude  winds  blew  meekly,  and 
caressed 

The  mimic  golden  fleeces  o'er  the  crest 

Of  bard  and  warrior,  on  their  secret  quest 

Bound  to  the  groves  of  Colchis;  and  the 
bark, 

Bound  which  had  frowned  a  threatening 
shape  and  dark. 

Now  seemed  to  thrill,  like  some  proud, 
sentient  thing 

That  glories  in  the  prowess  of  its  wing. 

The  gusty  billows  of  that  turbulent  sea 

Their  wild  crests  smoothed,  and  slowly, 
pantingly, 

Sunk  to  the  quiet  of  a  charmed  calm; 

"What  odors  Hesperean,  what  rich  balm 


Freight  the  fair  zephyrs,  as  they  shyly 
run 

O'er  the  lulled  waters  dimpling  in  the 
sun ! 

And  murmurings,  hark!  soft  as  the  long- 
drawn  kiss 

Pressed  by  a  young  god-lover  in  ins 
bliss 

On  lips  immortal,  when  the  world  was 
new ; 

And,  lo!  across  tin;  pure,  pellucid 
blue, 

A  barge,  with  silken  sails,  whose  beaute- 
ous crew, 

Winged  fays  and  Cupids,  curl  their 
sportive  arms 

O'er  one,  more  lovely  in  her  noontide 
charms 

Than  youngest  nymphs  of  Paphos ;  fra- 
grant showers 

Of  freshening  roses,  all  luxuriant  flowers 

That  feed  on  eastern  dews,  their  fairy 
bands 

Scatter  about  her  from  white  liberal 
hands ; 

While  o'er  the  surface  of  the  dazzling 
water, 

Dark-eyed,  mysterious,  many  an  ocean 
daughter 

Flashes  a  vanishing  brightness  on  her 
way, 

Half  seen  through  tiny  tinklings  of  the 
spray; 

And  music  its  full  heart  in  airy  falls 

Outpours,  like  silvery  cascades  down  the 
walls 

Of  haunted  rocks,  and  golden  cymbals 
ring, 

And  lutelike  measures  on  voluptuous 
wing 

Bise  gently  to  the  tranced  heavens,  re- 
plying 

From  azure-tinted  deeps  in  a  low  pas- 
sionate sighing. 

"Then  were  all  climes,  all  ages,  wildly 

blended 
On    blood-red   fields,    wherefrom    shrill 

shouts  ascended 


THE    WIFE   OF  BRITTANY. 


129 


Of  naked  warriors,  huge  and  swart  of 
limb, 

Mixed  with  the  mailed  Grecians'  omi- 
nous hymn, 

Where  mighty  banners  starlike  waved 
and  shone 

'Mid  cloven  bucklers  grandly;  and 
anon 

Marched  the  stern  Roman  phalanx,  with 
a  ring 

And  clash  of  spears,  and  lusty  trum- 
peting, 

And  steeds  that  neighed  defiance  unto 
death, 

And  all  war's  dreadful  pomp  and  hot, 
devouring  breath. 

Last,  on  a  sudden,  the  whole  tumult 
died, 

The  vision  disappeared;  pale,  leaden- 
eyed, 

Bewildered,  on  the  enchanted  floor  I 
sank ; 

When  next  my  wakening  spirit  faintly 
drank 

Life's  consciousness,  within  my  lonely 
room 

I  sat,  and  round  me  drooped  the  dreary 
twilight  gloom." 

Enough,  good    brother!    By  the  Holy 

Rood 
Thy  tale  is  medicinal !  the  black  mood, 
Which    like    a  spiritual  vulture  seized 

and  tore 
My  heart-strings,  and  imbued  its   beak 

in  gore 
Hot  from  the  soul,  beneath  the  golden 

spell 
Of  sovereign  hope  hath  sought  its  native 

hell. 
Then,  ho!  for  Orleans!''     At  the  word 

he  sprung 
Light  to  his  feet ;  it  seemed  there  scarcely 

bung 
One  trace  of    his  long  madness  round 

him  now, 
So  blithe  his  smile,  so  bright  his  kind- 
ling brow. 
All  day  they  rode  till  waning  afternoon, 


Through   breezy  copses,   and  the  shad- 
owy boon 
Of  mightier  woods,  when,  as  the  latest 

glance 
Of  sunset,  like  a  level  burnished  lance, 
.Smote  their  steel    morions,  sauntering 

near  the  town, 
With    thoughtful   mien,    robed    in   his 

scholar's  gown, 
They  met  a  keen-eyed  man,  ruddy  and 

tall; 
O'er  his  grave   vest   a   beard   of   wavy 

fall 
Flowed  like  a  rushing  streamlet,  rippling 

down : 
••  Welcome!"  he  cried  in  mellow  accents 

deep ; 
'"The  stars   have  warned  me,  and  my 

visioned  sleep 
Foretold  your  mission,  gentles.     Curio, 

what ! 
Thine  ancient,   loving    comrade    quite 

forgot  ? 
Spur  thy  dull  memory,  gossip!" 

"By  St.  Paul! 
The  learned  clerk,  the  gracious  Artevall, 
Or  glamour's   in    it,"    shouted    Curio; 

"vet 
Thou  look' st  as  hale,  as  young,  as  firmly 

set 
In    face  and   form,   as  if   for  thee  old 

Time 
Had  stopped  his  flight. " '    A  lofty  glance, 

sublime 
And  swift  as  lightning,  from  the  Magi- 

an's  eye 
Darted  some  latent  meaning  grave  and 

high. 
He  spake  not.  but  the  twain  he  gently 

led 
Where  grassy  pathways  and  fair  meads 

were  spread. 
Skirting  the  city  walls,  till  near  them 

stood, 
Fronting  the  gloomy  boskage  of  a  wood, 
The  wizard's  lonely  home,     I  need  not 

pause 
To  tell  how  magic  and  the  occult  laws 


130 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


Of  sciences  long  dead  that  sage's 
lore 

Did  in  the  spectral  midnight  horns  ex- 
plore. 

Enough,  that  his  strange  spells  a  mar- 
vel wrought 

Beyond  the  utmost  reach  of  credulous 
thought. 

At  last  he  said,  "  Sir  Squire,  my  task  is 
o'er; 

Go  when  thou  wilt,  and  view  the  Breton 
shore, 

And  thou  shalt  see  a  wide  unwrinkled 
strand, 

Smooth  as  thy  lovely  lady's  delicate 
hand, 

Washed  by  a  sea  o'er  which  the  halcyon 
West 

Broods  like  a  happy  heart  whose  dreams 
are  dreams  of  rest.  " 


PART    III. 

Meanwhile   Arviragus,  a  year  before 

Returned  in  honor  from  the  English 
shore, 

Led  with  his  faithful  Iolene  that 
life 

Harmonious,  justly  balanced,  free  from 
strife, 

Which  crowns  our  hopes  with  a  true- 
hearted  wife. 

Ne'er  dreamed  he,  as  she  laid  her  happy 

head 
Close  to  his  heart,  what  cloud  of  shame 

and  dread 
Gloomed  o'er  his  placid  roof-tree;   but 

content 
To  think  how  nobly  his  late  toils  had 

spent 
Their  force  beneath  Death's  gory  drip- 
ping brow 
Through  shocks  of  battle,  a  fresh  laurel 

bough 
Plucking    therefrom   to   nourish    green 

and  high 
About  his  war-worn  temples'  majesty, 


Gladly   from  bloodshed,   conflicts,   and 

alarms 
Here  rested  in  those  white,  encircling 

arms, 
And   oft  his  strong  heart   thrilled,  his 

eyes  grew  dim, 
To  know,  kind  heaven!  how  deep  her 

love  for  him. 

Thus  month  on  month  the  cheerful  days 

went  by, 
Like  carolling  birds  across  an  April  sky, 
A    fairy   sky   imdimmed    by   clouds   or 

showers. 
But  on  a  morning,  while  her  favorite 

flowers 
Iolene  tended,  in  the  garden-walks 
Pausing  to  clip  dead  leaves  and  prop  the 

stalks 
Of  drooping  plants,  herself  more  sweet 

and  fair 
Than    any    flower,    the    brightest    that 

blushed  there, 
Her  lord  stole  gently  on  her  unaware ; 
His  haughty  grace  all  softened,  he  bowed 

down 
To  kiss  the  stray  curls  of  her  locks  of 

brown, 
Thick   sown   with  threads   of    tangled, 

glimmering  gold: 
"At  need,"    he  said,   "thou  canst  be 

calm  and  bold; 
Therefore,  thou  wilt  not  yield  to  foolish 

woe 
If  duty  parts  us  briefly.     Wife,  I  go 
To  scourge  some  banded  ruffians  who  of 

late 
Assailed  our  peaceful  serfs,  and  our  es- 
tate — 
Thou  knowest   it   well  —  northwest   of 

Penmark  town, 
Ravished   with   sword   and    fire.       Thy 

lord's  renown, 
Yea,  and  thy  lord,  were  soon  the  scoff  of 

all, 
If  in  his  own  fair  fief  such  crimes  befall 
Unscourged   of  justice;    so,   dear  love, 

adieu ! 
Nor  fear  the  end  of  that  I  have  to  do.'' 


THE   WIFE   OF  BRITTANY. 


131 


Thus  spake  the  knight,  who  forthwith 
raised  a  shout, 

And  bade  them  bring  his  stalwart  war- 
horse  out ; 

When,  on  the  sudden,  a  steed,  tall,  jet- 
black, 

Led  by  a  groom  came  whinnying  down 
the  track, 

'Twixt  the  green  myrtle  hedges;  at  a 
bound 

He  vaulted  in  the  selle;  smilingly  round 

He  turned  to  wave  "farewell"  with 
mailed  hand, 

And  then  rode  blithely  down  the  sunlit 
land. 

That  evening,  at   the  close  of  vesper 

prayer, 
Wandering  along  through  the  still  twi- 
light air, 
Iolene,  somewhat  sad  and  sick  in  mind. 
Met  in  her  homeward  pathway,  low-re- 
clined 
Beneath  the  blasted  branches  of  an  oak, 
Aurelian,  her  wild  lover  of  old  days: 
She  started  backward  in  a  wan  amaze. 
But    he,   uprising    calmly,   bowed    and 

spoke ; 
"Ha!  thou  recall'st  me,  lady?     I  had 

deemed 
These  bitter  years  which  have  so  scarred 

and  seamed 
Whate'er  of  grace  I  owned  in  youthful 

prime, 
Had  razed  me  from  thy  memory.     See  a 

rime 
Like  that  of  age  hath  touched  my  locks 

to  white; 
Yet  never  once,  —  so  help  me  heaven !  — 

by  night 
Or  day,  in  storm  or  brightness,  hath  my 

soul 
Veered  but  a  point  from  thee,  its  starry 

goal. 
A  mighty  purpose  doth  itself  fulfil, 
Wise  men  have  said.     Lady!  I  love  thee 

still, 
And  Love  works  marvels.     Prithee  come 

with  me, 


Ay,  quickly  come,  and  thou  thyself  shalt 

see 
I  am  no  falsehood-monger.     Yea,  come, 

come!" 
His  words,  his  sudden  passion,  smote  her 

dumb, 
And  from  her  cheeks,  those  delicate  gar- 
dens, wane 
The  rare  twin  roses,  as  when  autumn 

rain, 
Fatally  sharp,  sweeps  o'er  some  doomed 

domain 
Of  matron  blooms,  and  their  rich  colors 

fade 
Like  rainbows  slowly  dying,  shade  by 

shade, 
Unto  wan  spectres  of  the  flowers  that 

were. 
With  languid  head  and  thoughts  of  pre- 
scient fear, 
Passively    following    where     Aurelian 

guides, 
She  hears  anon  the  surge  and  rush  of 

tides 
On  the  seashore,  and  feels  the  freshen- 
ing spray 
Bedew  her  brow.     "Lady,  look  forth, 

and  say 
If,  to  a  love  unquenched,  unquenchable. 
Eternal   Nature   yields  not;    its    strong 

spell 
Hath  toiled  for  me,  till  the  rocks  rooted 

under 
Those  heaving  waters  have  been  rent 

asunder, 
And  the  wide  spaces  of  the  ocean  plain, 
Down  to   the  farthest  bounds   of  wild 

Bretaigne, 
Rise  calmly  glorious   in  the  day-god's 

beam. 
Look,  look  thy  fill!  it  is  no  vanishing 

dream : 
Lo!  now  I  claim  thy  promise!" 

A  keen  gleam 
Shot    its    victorious  radiance    o'er    his 

brow. 
But  she,  bewildered,  tremulous,  shrink- 
ing low, 


132 


LEGENDS   AND  LYRICS. 


Her  clinched  hands  pale  even  to  the  fin- 
ger-tips, 

Pressed  on  her  Winded  eyes  and  faltering 
lips, 

Sued  in  a  voice  like  wailing  wind  that 
breaks 

From  aspen  coverts  over  lonely  lakes, 

In  the  shut  heart  of  immemorial  dells,  — 

A  fitful,  sobbing  voice,  whose  anguish 
swells, 

Burdened  with  deep  upyearning  suppli- 
cation, 

Coldly  across  his  evil  exultation. 

She  pleads  for  brief  delay,  with  frenzied 
pain 

Grasping  at  sonic  dim  phantom  of  the 
brain, 

Shadowing  a  vague  deliverance.  "As 
thou  wilt,"' 

He  answered  slowly.  "  Well  I  know  the 
guilt 

Of  broken  vows  can  never  rest  on  thee! 

Pass  by  unhurt  I"  Mutely  she  turned  to 
flee, 

Nor  paused  until  her  chambered  privacy 

She  reached  with  panting  sides,  pallid  as 
death, 

And  gasping  with  short,  anguished  sobs 
for  breath. 

"  Caught  am  I,  trapped  like  a  poor  flut- 
tering bird, 

Or  dappled  youngling  from  the  innocent 
herd 

Lured  to  a  pitfall !     Yet  such  oath  as  this 

Were  surely  void  ?  If  not,  he  still  shall 
miss  — 

Whate'er  betide  —  his  long-expected 
bliss! 

Better  pure-folded  arms,  and  stainless 
sleep 

Wbere  the  gray-drooping  willow- 
branches  weep, 

Than  meet  a  fate  so  hideous!  Let  me 
think! 

Others, — pure  wives,  brave  virgins,  on 
the  brink 

Of  shame  and  ruin,  have  struck  home 
and  fled, 

To  find  unending  quiet  with  the  dead." 


Borne  down  as  by  a  demon's  hand  which 

pressed 
Invisible,  but  stifling  on  her  breast, 
With  brain  benumbed,  yet  burning,  and 

a  sense 
Of  utter,  wearied,  desperate  impotence, 
Her  forlorn  glance  around  the  darkening 

room 
Roving  in  helpless  search,  from  out  the 

gloom 
Caught  the  blue  glitter  of  a  half-sheathed 

blade, 
A  small  but  trenchant  steel,  whose  lustre 

played 
Balefully   bright,    and   like   a   serpent's 

eye 
Fixed  on  her  with  malign  expectancy, 
Drew  her  perforce  towards  Heath,  — that 

death  which  seemed 
The   sole,   stern  means   through  which 

her  fame  redeemed, 
Should  soar  in  spiritual  beauty  o'er  the 

tomb 
Wherein  might  rest  her  body's  moulder- 
ing bloom. 

Ah,    me!    the    looks    distraught,    the 

passionate  care, 
The  whole  wild  scene,  its  misery  and 

despair. 
Come    back    like  scenes  of    yesterday. 

Half  bowed 
Her  queenly  form,  and  the  pent  grief 

allowed 
A  moment's  freedom  shakes  her  to  the 

core, 
The  inmost  seat  of   reason.      "  All   is 

o'er," 
She  murmurs,  as  her  slender  fingers  feel 
The  deadly  edge  of  the  cold  shimmering 

steel. 
At  once   her  swift   arm    flashes  to   its 

height, 
While  the  poised  death  hangs  quivering, 

and  her  sight 
Grows  dazed  and  giddy :  when  from  far, 

so  far 
It   sounded   like   the   weird   voice  of   a 

star, 


'He  turned  to  wave  •farewell'  with  mailed  hand, 
And  then  rode  blithely  down  the  sunlit  land." 


THE   WIFE    OF  BRITTANY. 


133 


Muffled    by  distance,   yet   distinct  and 

deep, 
About  ber  in  tbe  terrible  silence  creep 
Accents  that    seize    as  with    a    bodily 

force 
On  her  white   arm  suspended,  and  its 

course 
To  fatal  issues,  with  arresting  will 
Hold    rigid,   till    supine    it    drops    and 

still, 
Back    to    its     drooping     level,    and     a 

clang 
Of  the  freed  steel  through  all  the  cham- 
ber rang 
Sharply,      and      something     shuddered 

down  the  air 
Like  wings  of  baffled  fiends  passing  in 

fierce  despair. 

A  warning  blent  of  prescient  wrath  and 

prayer 
Those  accents  seemed,  where  through  a 

palpable  dread 
Ean  coldly  shivering.     "  Pause,  pause, 

pause!"  they  said; 
"Bar  not   thy  hopes  'gainst  chance  of   j   I  wait  thy  will." 


Mistlike  it  waned;   but  in  her  heart  of 

hearts 
The  solemn   counsel   sank:   with  guilty 

starts, 
She  thought  how  near,  through  grief's 

bewildering  blight, 
How  near  to  death,  to  death  and  sbame, 

this  night 
Her    reckless    soul    had    strayed.      Yet 

short-lived  hope 
Moved  hour  by  hour  through  paths  of 

narrowing  scope, 
As,   day  by    day,    her    term    of    grace 

passed  by, 
Like   phantom  birds  across  a  phantom 

sky; 
Her    lord    still    absent,    and    Aurelian 

bound 
(For  thus   he  wrote  her)  to   one  weary 

round, 
Morn  after  morn,  of  pacings  to  and  fro, 
Within  the  wooded  garden-walls  below 
The  city's  southward  portals.    "  There," 

said  he, 
"  Each  day,  and  all  day  long,  impatiently 


happier  fate ! 

The  circuit  vast  which  rounds  life's  dial- 
plate 

Hath  many  lights  and  shades ;  its  hand 
which  lowers 

So  tbreatening  now,  may  move  to 
golden  hours, 

And  thou  on  tliis  sad  time  may'st  look 
like  one 

Smiling  on  mortal  woes  from  some 
unsetting  sun." 

Motionless,  overcome  by  hushing  awe, 


As  when  in  dewy  spring, 

'Mid  the  moist  herbage  closely  nestling, 

Ofttimes  we  see  the  hunted  partridge 
cling, 

Panting  and  scared,  to  the  thick-cover- 
ing grass, 

The  while  above  her  couch  cloth  darkly 
pass 

What  seemeth   the   shadow  of  a  giant 
wing, 

And  she,  more  lowly,  with  a  cowering 
stoop, 

Shivers,  expecting  tbe  fell,  fiery  swoop 
She  heard  tbe  mystic  voice,  and  dreamed   I    Of  tbe  gaunt  hawk,  that  corsair  of  the 


she  saw, 
Just  o'er  the   dubious    borders  of    the 

light, 
A    wavering    apparition,    scarce    more 

bright 
Than  one  faint  moon-ray,  through  the 

misty  tears 
Of  clouded  evenings  seen  on  breezeless 

mountain  meres. 


breeze, 
And  feels  beforehand  his   sharp  talons 

seize 
And  rend  her  tender  vitals:  so  at  home, 
Iolene,  trembling  at  the  stroke  to  come, 
Touched   by  the    lurid   shadow  of   her 

doom, 
Lingered;  until,  upon  a  sunny  dawn, 
Her  lord  returning,  gayly  up  the  lawn 


134 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Urged  his  blithe  courser,  and,  dismount- 
ing, came 

Upon  her,  warmly  glowing,  all  aflame 

With  hope  and  love.  But  as  her  dreary 
eyes 

Were  turned  on  bis,  a  quick,  disturbed 
surprise 

And  then  a  terror,  smote  him,  and  the 
voice 

All  jubilant,  full-breathed  to  say,  "Re- 
joice, 

Our  foes  are  slain!"  clave  stammering 
in  his  throat. 

But  she,  her  loose,  dishevelled  locks 
afloat 

Bound  the  fair-sloping  shoulders,  her 
hands  clasped 

About  his  mailed  knees,  brokenly  gasped 

Her  anguish  forth,  and  told  her  sorrow- 
ful tale. 

Dizzy  and  unite,  and  as  the  marble 
pale 

Whereon  he  leaned,  unto  the  desperate 
close 

The  knight  heard  all,  locked  in  a  cold 
repose 

More  dread  than  stormiest  passion ;  life 
and  strength 

Seemed  slowly  ebbing  from  him.  till  at 
length 

His  soul,  like  one  that  walks  the  fatal 
sand 

(Whose  treacherous  smoothness  looks  a 
solid  strand. 

But  tempts  to  ruin),  felt  all  earth  grow 
dim, 

And  round  him  saw,  as  in  a  chaos, 
swim 

Joy's  fair  horizon  melting  in  the 
cloud. 

But  soon  his  stalwart  will,  rugged  and 
proud. 

Woke  lionlike  to  action;  a  swift  flush 

Bushed  like  a  sunset  river's  reddening 
glow 

O'er  the  tempestuous  blackness  of  his 
brow, 

Pregnant  with  thunder;  through  the  dis- 
mal hush, 


IBs  pitiless  voice,  sharp-echoing  round 

about 
The  clanging  court,  leaped  like  a  falchion 

out. 

"  Thou  hast  played  with  honor  as  a  jug- 
gler's ball; 
God  strikes  thee  from  thy  balance,  and 

the  thrall 
Art  thou,  henceforth,  of  one  vainglorious 

deed. 
What!  shall  we  plant  with  rash  caprice 

the  seed 
Of  bitterness,  nor  look  for  some  harsh 

fruit 
To   spring  untimely  from  its  poisonous 

root? 
What!   a  lewd  spark,  a  perfumed   pop- 
injay, 
Dares  in  the  broad-browed,  honest  gaze 

of  day. 
To  dash  a  foul  thought,  like  the  hideous 

spray 
Of   Hell,   right   in  thy   forehead, — and 

thy  hand, 
Which  should  have   towered   as   if   the 

levin-brand 
Of  scorn  and  judgment  armed  it,  but  a 

bland 
Dismissal  signs  him!  not  one  hint  which 

tells 
Thy   lord,   meantime,    what    loathsome 

secret  dwells 
Here,   by   his   hearthstone,  muffled   up. 

concealed, 
And  like  a  corse  corrupting,  till,  revealed 
By   vengeful   doom,    its    pestilent    odor 

steals 
Outward,  while  all  the  wholesome  blood 

congeals 
To  a  chill  horror,  and  the  air  grows  vile. 
And  even  the  blessed  sun  a  death's-head 

smile 
Assumes  in  our  distempered  fantasy? 
By  Heaven!  this  withering  curse  which 

hangs  o'er  thee, 
O  lolene ! "  —  but  here  his  angry  voice 
Broke  short,  —  "  There  is  no  choice, "  he 

moaned,  ''no  choice. 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY 


135 


Yea,  wife!  may  Christ  adjudge  me  if  I 

lie, 
To  endless,  as  now  keen  calamity, 
But  through  this  troublous   gloom  my 

mind  discerns 
One  lonely  light  to  guide  us;  lo,  it  burns 
Lurid,  yet  clear,  by  whose  tierce  flame  1 

see  — 
Ah,  grief  malign!  ah,  bitter  destiny!  — 
As  if  God's  own  right  hand  the  blazing 

pain 
And  fiery  bale  did   stamp  on  soul  and 

brain, 
These  terms  of  doom : 

Shame  and  despair  for  both, 
Sorrow  and  heartbreak!     Through  all, 

keep  thine  oath, 
Thou    woman,    self-involved,    self-lost  ; 

and  so 
Face  the  black  front  of  this  tremendous 


She  bowed  as  if  a  blast  of  sudden  wind, 
Breathing    full  winter,  smote   her  cold 

and  blind ; 
Then  as  one  wandering  in  a  soul-eclipse, 
Feebly  she  rose,  and  with  her  quivering 

lips 
Kissed  her  pale  lord,  stifling  one  desolate 

cry. 
Anon  she  moved  around  him  noiselessly 
Bent  on  the  small,  sweet  offices  of  love; 
And    sometimes    pausing,    she    would 

glance  above 
With  tearless  eyes,  for  solemn  griefs  like 

this, 
Blighting  at  once  both  root  and  flowers 

of  bliss, 
Are  arid  as  the  desert,  and  in  vain 
Thirst  for  the  cooling  freshness  of  the 

rain. 
Fitfully    led    from    treasured    nook    to 

nook 
Of  her  dear  home,  she  walked  with  far- 
off  look, 
And   absent   fingers,   plying  household 

tasks : 
Bravely  her  sunless   wretchedness    she 

masks 


Through    moments    deemed    unending 

while  they  passed  — 
When  passed,  a  flickering  point!    Hark! 

The  doomed  hour  at  last! 

An  afternoon  it  was,  stirless  and  calm : 
From  field  and  garden-close  rare  breaths 

of  balm 
Made  the  air  moist  and  odorous.     Nature 

lay 
Divinely  peaceful;  only  far  away 
In   the   broad   zenith,   a  strange   cloud 

unfurled 
Its  boding  banner  weirdly  o'er  the  world ; 
Whilst   Iolene,   her   veiled    head   sadly 

bowed, 
Passed  through  the  gay  thorpe  and  its 

motley  crowd, 
To  where  a  great  wall  towered  this  side 

a  wood. 
All  things  her    mazed,    chaotic    fancy 

viewed 
Looked  dreamlike;  even  Aurelian   lin- 
gering there, 
To  meet  her  in  the  shadiest  forest-lair, 
Gleamed  ghostly  dim,  a  dreadful  ghost 

in  sooth, — 
For  still  a  hideous  trance  appeared  to 

press 
Upon   her   and    a   nightmare    helpless- 
ness,— 
To   whom  she   knelt   in   sad  mechanic 

guise, 
Pleading  for  mercy  with   such  piteous 

eyes. 
And   such    soft    flow   of    self-bewailing 

ruth, 
Aurelian   felt    his   passion's    quivering 

chords 
Stilled   at  the   touch   of  those   pathetic 

words, 
That  glance  of  wild  appealing  agonies. 
Stirred    by  his    nobler  nature's    grave 

command 
(That  fair,  indwelling  angel  sweet  and 

grand. 
Born  to  transmute  the  worn  and  blasted 

soil 
Of  sinful  hearts  by  his  celestial  toil 


13(5 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


To  Eden  places  and  the  haunts  of  God), 

At   fitful  whiles   from  o'er  the  watery 

He  stooped,   and,  courteous,  raised  her 

waste, 

from  the  sod, 

He  saw,  as  if  she  spurned  the  earth  in 

And    whispered    closely    in    her    eager 

haste, 

ear 

His    gentle    wife    returning,     with    a 

Words  which  his  guardian  genius  smiled 

face 

to  hear; 

Whereon  there  dwelt  no  shadow  of  dis- 

Words of  release,  and  balmy  breathing 

grace  ; 

cheer. 

A  face  that  seemed  transfigured  in  the 

And  while  his  softening  gaze  a  grateful 

light 

mist 

Of  Paradise,  it  shone  so  softly  bright. 

Feelingly  dimmed,  with  knightly  grace 

Beautiful   ever,   round    her    now  there 

he  kissed 

hovered 

Her  drooping  forehead,  and  loose  tresses 

A  subtle,  new-born  glory,  which  discov- 

thrown 

ered 

In  rippling  waves  adown   the  heaving 

A  shape  so  dazzling,  you  had  thought  the 

zone; 

plume 

Once,  twice,  he  kissed  her  thus,  with 

Of    some    archangel's    pinion    cast   its 

reverence  meek; 

bloom 

But  when  her  brimming  eyes  uplifted, 

About  her,  and  the  veil  of  heaven  with- 

seek 

drawn. 

Aurelian   now,  with  eloquent  looks  to 

She    viewed    the    mystic    streams,    the 

tell 

sapphire  dawn, 

What  tenderest  words  could  not  convey 

And  heard  the  choirs  celestial,  tier  on 

so  well, 

tier 

She  only  hears  the  tree-stems,  tall  and 

Uptowering    to    the    uttermost    golden 

brown, 

sphere, 

The  golden  leaves  come  faintly  fluttering 

Sing  of  a  vanquished  dread,  a  blest  re- 

down. 

lease, 

And  only  hears  the  wind  of  sunset  moan : 

The  effluence  and  the  solemn  charm  of 

Midmost    the   twilight   wood    the    lady 

peace. 

stands  alone. 

Evening  closed   round   them;    o'er  the 

Stung  by  his  misery  into  frenzied  mo- 

placid reach 

tion, 

Stretching  far  northward  of  the  sea-girt 

Her  lord   meantime  beside  the  restless 

beach, 

ocean 

They  passed,  while  night's  first  planet  in 

Roamed,   hearkening  to    the   mournful 

the  sky 

undertone. 

Faltered  from  out  the  stillness  timidly, 

Of  the  sea's  mighty  heart,  which  touched 

And  perfumed  breezes  rustled  murmur- 

his own, 

ing  by, 

0  God,  bow  sadly!   when  abruptly  lift- 

"Twixt the  grim  headlands  up  the  glens 

ing 

to  die, 

His  furrowed  brow,  long  fixed  upon  the 

And  white-winged  sea-birds,  with  a  long- 

shifting 

drawn  cry. 

And  mimic  whirlwinds  of  loose  sand  that 

Which   spake   of   homeward   flight  and 

flew 

billowy  nest, 

Hither  and  thither,  as  the  brief  winds 

Glanced   through   the   sunset  down  the 

blew 

wavering  West. 

THE   RIVER. 


187 


Evening    closed    o'er  them,   mellowing 

into  dark; 
Along  the  horizon's  edge,  a  tiny  spark. 
Dull-red  at   first,  but  broadening  to   a 

white 
And    tranquil    orb    of    silver-streaming 

light, 
Slowly  the  Night  Queen  fair  her  heaven 

ascends : 
The  outlines  of  those  loving  forms  she 

blends 
Into  one  luminous  shade,  which  seems 

to  float, 
Mingle  and  melt  in  shining  mists  remote ; 
Type  of  two  perfect  lives,  whose  single 

soul 
Outbreathes  a  cordial  music,  sweet  and 

whole. 
One  will,  one  mind,   one  joy-encircled 

fate, 
And  one  winged  faith  that  soars  beyond 

the  heavenly  gate. 


My  song,  which  now  hath  long  flowed 

unperplexed 
Through    scenes    so    various,    calm    as 

heaven,  or  vexed 
By  gusty  passion,  reaches  the  lone  shore, 
Ghostlike  and  strange,  of  silence  and  old 

dreams ; 
Far-off  its  weird  and  wandering  whisper 

seems 
Like  airs  that  faint  o'er  untracked  oceans 

hoar 
On  haunted  midnights,  when  the  moon 

is  low. 
And   now  'tis  ended:    long,   yea,    long- 
ago, 
Lost  on  the  wings  of  all  the  winds  that 

blow, 
The  dust  of  these  dead  loves  hath  passed 

away ; 
Still,   still,   methinks,    a    soft,    ethereal 

ray 
Illumes  the  tender  record,  and   makes 

bright 
Its  heart-deep  pathos  with  a  marvellous 

light, 


So  that  whate'er  of  frenzied  grief  and 
pain 

Marred  the  pure  currents  of  the  crystal 
strain, 

Transfigured  shines  through  fancy's  mel- 
lowing trance, 

Touching  with  golden  haze  the  quaint 
old-world  romance. 

Note.  —  Of  "The  Frankleines  Tale,"  the 
plot  of  which  has  been  followed  in  "  The  Wife 
of  Brittany,"  Richard  Henry  Home,  the  au- 
thor of  "Orion,"  says:  "It  is  a  noble  story, 
perfect  in  its  moral  purpose,  and  chivalrous 
self-devotion  to  a  feeling  of  truth  and  honor; 
but  it  would  have  been  more  satisfactory  in  an 
intellectual  sense  had  a  distinction  been  made 
between  a  sincere  pledge  of  faith  and  a  '  merry 
bond  ! '  " 


THE    RIVER. 

["Man's  life  is  like  a  river,  which  likewise 
hath  its  seasons  or  phases  of  progress:  first,  its 
spring  rise,  gentle  and  beautiful;  next,  its 
summer,  of  eventful  maturity,  mixed  calm, 
and  storm,  followed  by  autumnal  decadence, 
and  mists  of  winter,  after  which  cometh  the 
all-embracing  sea,  type  of  that  mystery  we 
call  eternity! "] 

Up  among  the  dew-lit  fallows 

Slight  but  fair  it  took  its  rise, 
And  through  rounds  of  golden  shallows 

Brightened  under  broadening  skies; 
While  the  delicate  wind  of  morning 

Touched  the  waves  to  happier  grace, 
Like  a  breath  of  love's  forewarning, 

Dimpling  o'er  a  virgin  face,  — 
Till  the  tides  of  that  rare  river 

Merged  and  mellowed  into  one, 
Flashed  the  shafts  from  sundawn's  quiver 

Backward  to  the  sun. 

Eoyal  breadths  of  sky-born  blushes 

Burned  athwart  its  billowy  breast,  — 
But  beyond  those  roseate  flushes 

Shone  the  snow-white  swans  at  rest; 
Bound  in  graceful  flights  the  swallows 

Dipped  and  soared,  and  soaring  sang, 
And  in  bays  and  reed-bound  hollows, 

How  earth's  wild,  sweet  voices  rang! 


138 


LEGENDS   AXD   LYRICS. 


Till  the  strong,  swift,  glorious  river 
Seemed  with  mightier  pulse  to  run. 

Thus  to  roll  and  rush  forever, 
Laughing  in  the  sun. 

Xay;  a  something  born  of  shadow 

Slowly  crept  the  landscape  o'er,  — 
Something  weird  o'er  wave  and  meadow. 

Something  cold  o'er  stream  and  shore; 
While  on  birds  that  gleamed  or  chanted. 

Stole  gray  gloom  and  silence  grim. 
And  the  troubled  wave-heart  panted, 

And  the  smiling  heavens  waxed  dim, 
And  from  far  strange  spaces  seaward, 

Out  of  dreamy  cloud-lands  dun. 
Came  a  low  gust  moaning  leeward. 

Chilling  leaf  and  sun. 

Then,  from  gloom  to  gloom  intenser, 

On  the  laboring  streamlet  rolled. 
Where  from  cloud-racks  gathered  denser, 

Hark!  the  ominous  thunder  knolled! 
While  like  ghosts  that  flit  and  shiver, 

Down  the  mists,  from  out  the  blast, 
Spectral  pinions  crossed  the  river,  — 

Spectral  voices  wailing  passed ! 
Till  the  fierce  tides,  rising  starkly, 

Blended,  towering  into  one 
Mighty  wall  of  blackness,  darkly 

Quenching  sky  and  sun ! 

Thence,  to  softer  scenes  it  wandered. 

Scents  of  flowers  and  airs  of  balm. 
And  niethought  the  streamlet  pondered. 

Conscious  of  the  blissful  calm: 
Slow  it  wound  now.  slow  and  slower 

By  still  beach  and  ripply  bight, 
And  the  voice  of  waves  sank  lower, 

Laden,  languid  with  delight: 
In  and  out  the  cordial  river 

Strayed  in  peaceful  curves  that  won 
Glory  from  the  great  Life-Giver, 

Beauty  from  the  sim ! 

Thence  again  with  quaintest  ranges. 
On  the  fateful  streamlet  rolled 

Through  unnumbered. nameless  changes, 
Shade  and  sunshine,  gloom  and  gold. 


Till  the  tides,  grown  sad  and  weary, 

Longed  to  meet  the  mightier  main, 
And  their  low-toned  miserere 

Mingled  with  his  grand  refrain: 
Oh.  the  languid,  lapsing  river. 

Weak  of  pulse  and  soft  of  tune.  — 
Lo !  the  sun  hath  set  forever. 

Lo !  the  ghostly  moon ! 

But  thenceforth  through  moon  and  star- 
light 

Sudden-swift  the  streamlet's  sweep; 
Yearning  for  the  mystic  far-light. 

Pining  for  the  solemn  deep ; 
While  the  old  strength  gathers  o;er  it. 

While  the  old  voice  rings  sublime. 
And  in  pallid  mist  before  it. 

Fade  the  phantom  shows  of  time.  — 
Till  with  one  last  eddying  quiver, 

All  its  checkered  journey  clone, 
Seaward  breaks  the  ransomed  river, 

Goal  and  grave  are  won ! 


the  sronr  of  glaucus  the 

THESSALIAX.  * 


List  to  this  legend,  which  an  antique 

poet 
Hath  left  among  the  musty  tomes  of  eld, 
Like  a  flushed  rosebud  pressed  between 

the  leaves 
Of  some  worn,  dark-hued  volume.    What 

a  light 
Of  healthful  bloom  about  it !    What  an 

air 
Seems  breathing  round  its  delicate  petals 

still! 
Wilt    thou    not    take  it.    lady,  —  thou, 

whose  face 
Is  lovely  as  a  lost  Arcadian  dreain,  — 
And  place  it  next  thy  heart,  and  keep  it 

fresh 
With  balmy  dews  thy  gentle  spirit  sends 


*  The  elements  of  this  story  are  to  be  found 
in  Apollonius  Khodius,  and  Leigh  Hunt  has 
embodied  them  in  a  graceful  prose  legend. 


"On  the  fateful  streamlet  rolled 
Through  unnumbered,  nameless  changes, 
Shade  and  sunshine,  gloom  and  gold." 


THE   STORY  OF   GLAUGVS   THE   ±~nES  SALTAN. 


189 


Up  to  the  deep  founts  of  the  tenderest 

eyes 
That  e'er  have  shone,  I  think,  since  in 

some  dell 
Of  Argos  and  enchanted  Thessaly, 
The  poet,  from  whose  heart-lit  brain  it 

came, 
Murmured  this  record  unto  her  he  loved  ? 

THE    STORY. 

Glaucus,  a  young  Thessalian,  while  the 

dawn 
Of  a  fresh  spring-tide  brightened  copse 

and  lawn, 
Sauntered,    with     lingering    steps    and 

dreamy  mood, 
Adown  the  fragrant  pathway  of  a  wood 
Which    skirted     his     small    homestead 

pleasantly,  — 
And  there  he  saw  a  tall,  majestic  tree, 
An  oak  of  untold  summers,  whose  broad 

crown. 
Quivering  as  if  in  some  slow  agony, 
And  trembling   inch  by  inch  forlornly 

down, 
Threatened,  for  want  of  a  kind  propping 

care, 
To  leave  its  breezy  realm  of  golden  air, 
And  from  its  leafy  heights,  with  shriek 

and  groan, 
Like  some   proud  forest  empire    over- 
thrown, 
Measure  its  vast  bulk  on  the  greensward 

lone. 

Glaucus  beheld  and  pitied  it.     He  saw 
The  approaching  ruin  with  a  touch  of 

awe, 
Xo  less  than  genial  sympathy, —  for  men. 
In  those  old  times,  pierced  with  a  wiser 

ken 
To  the  deep  soul  of  Nature,  and  from 

thence 
Drew  a  serene  and  mystic  influence, 
Which  thrilled  all  life  to  music.     There- 
fore he 
Called  on  his  slaves,  and  bade  them  prop 
the  tree. 


Musing  he  passed  to  a  still  lonelier  place 
In  the  dim  forest,  by  this  act  of  grace 
Lightened  and  cheered,  when,  from  the 

copse-wood  nigh, 
There  dawned  upon  his  vision  suddenly 
A  shape  more  fair  and  lustrous  than  the 

star 
Which    rides    o'er    Cloudland   on    her 

sapphire  car 
When  vesper  winds  are  fluting  solemnly. 
"  Glaucus,"   she  said,    in  tones   whose 

liquid  flow, 
Mellow,  harmonious,  passionately  low, 
Stole  o'er  his  spirit  with  a  strange,  wild 

thrill, 
"  I  am  the  Nymph  of  that  fair  tree  thy 

will 
Hath  saved  from  ruin;  but  for  thee  my 

breath 
Had  vanished  mistlike.  —  my  glad  eyes 

in  death 
Been  sealed  for  evermore.     Yes !  but  for 

thee 
I  must  have  lost  that  half-divinity 
Whose  secret  essence,  spiritually  fine, 
Hath    warmed    my   veins    like    Hebe's 

heavenly  wine. 
Xo  more,  no  more  amid  my  rippling  hair 
Could   I   have  felt   soft   fingers   of   the 

air 
Dallying  at  dawn  or  twilight.  —  on  my 

cheek 
Have  felt  the  sun  rest  with  a  rosy  streak. 
Pulsing  in  languor;   nor  with  pleasant 

pain 
Drooped  in  the  cool  arms  of  the  loving 

Eain, 
That  wept  its  soul  out  on  my  bosom  fair. 
But   now.  in    long,    calm,  blissful   days 

to  be. 
This  life  of  mine  shall  lapse  deliciously 
Through   all   the  seasons  of  the  boun- 
teous year ; 
Beneath  my  shade  mortals  shall  sit,  and 

hear 
Benignant  whispers  in  the  shimmering 

leaves ; 
And  sometimes,  upon  wTarm  and  odorous 

eves, 


140 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Lovers  shall  bring  me  offerings  of  sweet 
things,  — 

Honey  and  fruit,  —  and  dream  they  mark 
the  wings 

Of  Cupids  fluttering  through  the  oak- 
boughs  hoar. 

All  this  I  owe  thee,  Glaucus,  —  all,  and 
more ! 

Ask  what  thou  wilt!  —  thou  shalt  not 
ask  in  vain ! ' ' 

Then   Glaucus,  gazing  in  her  glorious 

eyes, 
And  rallying  from  his  first  unmanned 

surprise, 
Emboldened,   too,   by    her    soft    looks, 

which  drew 
A  spell  about  his  heart  like  fire  and  dew 
Mingled  and   melting  in  a   love-charm 

bland,  — 
And  by  the  twinkling  of  her  moon-white 

band, 
That  seemed  to  beckon  coyly  to  her  side. 
And  by  her  maiden  sweetness  deified, 
And  something  that  he  deemed  a  dear 

unrest 
Heaving   the   unveiled    billows    of    her 

breast  — 
(As  if  her  preternatural  part,  as  free 
And  wild  as  any  nursling  of  the  lea, 
Yearned  wholly   downward   to   human- 
ity)- 
Emboldened   thus,    I   say,    Glaucus    re- 
plied: 
"O   fairest  vision!    be   my  love,  —  my 
bride!" 

Over  her  face  there  passed  an  airy  flush, 

The  roseate  shade,  the  twilight  of  a 
blush, 

Ere  the  low-whispering  answer  pensively 

Stirred  the  dim  silence  in  its  tranced 
hush. 

"Thy  suit  is  granted,  Glaucus!  though, 
perchance 

A  peril  broods  o'er  this,  thy  bright  ro- 
mance, 

Like  a  lone  cloudlet  o'er  a  lake  that's 
fair. 


When  the  high  noon,  flaunting  so  hotly 

now 
Fades  into  evening,  thou  may'st  meet 

me  here, 
Just  in  the  cool  of  this  rill-shadowing 

bough ; 
My  favorite  bee,  my  fairy  of  the  flowers. 
Shall  bid  thee  come  to  that  pure  tryst  of 

ours." 

Who  now  so  proud  as  Glaucus  ?   "I  have 

won," 
Lightly  he   said,  "the  marvellous  ben- 

ison 
Of  love  from  her  in  whose  soft-folding 

arms 
Gods  might  forget  Elysium!      O!    her 

charms 
Are  perfect.  —  perfect  heaven   and  per- 
fect earth, 
Blest  and  commingled  in  one  excpiisite 

birth 
Of  beauty,  —  and  for  me !     I  know  not 

why, 
But  rosy  Eros  ever  seems  to  fly 
Gayly  before  me,  armed  for  victory. 
In  every  pleasant  love-strife !  "     On  this 

theme 
Deeply  he  dwelt,  till  a  vain  self-esteem 
Obscured  his  worthier  spirit.     Thus  he 

went 
Out  from  the  haunted  wood,  his  nature 

toned 
Down   to  the   common  daylight,  disen- 

zoned 
Of  all  its  rare,  ethereal  ravishment. 

Still  in  this  mood,  he  sought  the  neigh- 
boring town. 

Met  with  some  gay  young  comrades,  and 
sat  down 

To  dice  and  wassail.  All  that  morn  he 
played, 

And  quaffed,  and  sang,  and  feasted,  till 
the  shade 

Of  evening  o'er  earth's  forehead  cast  a 
gloom ; 

And  still  he  played,  when  on  his  ear  the 
boom 


THE   STORY  OF   GLAUCUS    THE    THESSAL1A.Y. 


141 


Of  a  swift,  shining,  yellow-breasted  bee 
Rung  out  its  small  alarum.  Teasingly 
The  insect  hummed  about  him,  went  and 

came, 
And  like  a  tiny  hell  of  circling  flame 
And  discord  seemed  to  Glaucus,  who  at 

last 
Struck  at  the  winged  torment  testily. 
The  bee  —  poor  go-between!  —  in  either 

thigh 
Cruelly  maimed,  with  feeble  flutterings, 

passed 
Back  to   its   home    amid    the    foliaged 

bloom. 

At  length,  in  two  most  fortunate  throws, 

the  game 
Was  won  by  Glaucus !     With  triumphant 

smile 
He  seized  and  pocketed  a  glittering  pile 
Of  new  sestertii.     "Ay!    'tis   e'er  the 

same," 
He  muttered;  "dice  or  women,  I  must 

win ! 
But  hold!  —  by  Venus!  'twere  a  burning 

sin, 
And  false  to  my  fond  wild  flower  of  the 

wood 
Longer  to  dally  here.     O  Fortune !  good, 
Kind  mistress,   speed  me  still !     Would 

that  each  heel 
Were    plumed    like    happy   Hermes'!" 

His  late  zeal 
Spurred  the  youth  onward  to  the  place 

of  tryst,  — 
One  final  burst  of  sunset  —  amethyst, 
Ruby,   and  topaz  —  blazed    among  the 

boughs, 
Whence    a    sad    voice,  —  "  Breaker   of 

solemn  vows, 
Wind  dost  thou  here?     Thine  hour  has 

past  for  aye !  " 
Glaucus,    with     startled     eyes,    peered 

through  the  sway 
Of  moistened  fern  and  thicket,  but  his 

view 
Rested  alone  on  vacancy,  or  caught, 
Swift    as    the    shifting    glamour    of    a 

thought, 


Only  the  golden  and  evanishing  ray, 
Which,  softened  by  cool  sparkles  of  the 

dew, 
Flashed  through  the  half-closed  lids  of 

weary  Day. 

"Here  am  I,"  said  the  voice,  so  sadly 

sweet, 
The  listener  thrilled  even  to  his  pausing 

feet,  — 
"Here,    right    before    thee,   Glaucus!" 

Yet  again 
The  youth  with  straining  eyeballs   and 

hot  brain. 
Searched  the  dense  thickets,  —  it  was  all 

in  vain. 
"Alas!    alas!"   (and   now   a  tremulous 

moan 
Sobbed   through  the  voice,  like  a  faint 

minor  tone 
In    mournful    human     music)  —  "thou 

canst  see 
My  face  no  more,  for  sternly,  drearily, 
A  wildering  cloud  of  sense,  that  shall 

not  rise. 
Hath  come  between  me  and  thy  darken- 
ing eyes. 
O  shallow-hearted !  nevermore  on  thee 
Shall  visions  of  that  finer  world  above 
Dawn  from  the  chaste  auroras  of  their 

love ; 
But  common  things,   seen  in  a  funeral 

haze 
Of  earthiness,  and  sorrow,  and  mistrust, 
Weigh  the  soul  down,  and  soil  its  hopes 

with  dust; 
A  hand  like  Fate's  with  cruel  force  shall 

press 
Thy  spirit  backward  into  heaviness. 
And  the  base  realm  of  that  forlorn  abyss 
Wherein  the  serpent  Passions  writhe  and 

hiss 
In    savage    desolation!      Blind,    blind, 

blind 
Art  thou  henceforth  in  heart,  and  hope, 

and  mind! 
For  he  to  whom  my  messenger  of  joy 
And    soothing     promise    only    brought 

annoy 


142 


LEGENDS   AXD   LYRICS. 


And    sharp    disquiet    in    his    low-born 

lust.  — 
What,    what    to    him    Ideal    Beauty's 

kiss. 
The    charm   of    loft}-   converse    in   the 

dells. 
Of  divine  meetings,  musical  farewells, 
And    glimpses    through    the    flickering 

leaves  at  night 
Of  such  fair  mysteries  in  awe-hushing 

light 
That    even    I,    who    in     these     forests 

dwell 
Purely    with    innocent    creatures,    unto 

whom 
All  Nature  opes  her  innermost  heart  of 

bloom 
And    blessedness,     by    some    majestic 

spell 
Uplifted  unto  realms  ineffable. 
Faint  almost  in  the  splendor  large  and 

clear  ? 
The  winds  have  ceased  their   inurmur- 

ings.  —  on  my  ear 
The  rill-songs  melt  to  threads  of  delicate 

tune. 
And  even"  small  mote  dancing  in   the 

moon 
Expands,  and   brightens  to  a   spiritual 

eye. 
Luring  me  up  to  Immortality. 
O!    then   my   earthly   nature,  loosening 

slips 
Down    like    a    garment,    and    invisible 

lips 
Whisper   the    secrets   of    their   happier 

sphere ! 
This  bliss.  O  youth!  my  soul  had  shared 

with  one 
Worthy  the  gift!  Alas!  thou  art  not  he!  " 

The  voice  died  off  toward    the  waning 

sun ! 
Glaucus  looked  up. — the    gaunt,   gray 

forest  trees 
Seemed  to  close  o'er  him  like  a  vault  of 

stone. 
"Just  Gods.'"  he  sighed.  "lam  indeed 

alone .' " 


THE  NEST. 

At  the  poet's  life-core  lying- 
Is  a  sheltered  and  sacred  nest, 

Where,  as  yet.  unfledged  for  flying. 
His  callow  fancies  rest  : 

Fancies,  and  thoughts,  and  feelings. 

Which  the  mother  Psyche  breeds. 
And  passions  whose  dim  revealings 

But  torture  their  hungry  needs. 

Yet.  —  there  cometh  a  summer  splendor 
"When  the  golden  brood  wax  strong, 

And,  with  voices  grand  or  tender. 
They  rise  to  the  heaven  of  sons. 


XOT  DEAD. 
TO  J.  A.  I). 

Here,  at  the  sweetest  hour  of  this  sweet 
day. 
Here  in  the  calmest  woodland  haunt 
I  know. 
Benignant  thoughts  around  my  memory 
play. 
And  in  my  heart  do  pleasant  fancies 

blow. 
Like  flowers   turned  to  thee,   radiant 
and  aglow. 
Flushed   by  the  light  of    times  forever 

tied. 

"Whose   tender   glory    pales,   but    is   not 
dead. 

The  warm  south  wind  is  like  thy  gener- 
ous breath. 
Laden   with   kindly   words   of   gentle 
cheer. 
And   every   whispering    leaf   above   me 
saith. 
She  whom  thou  dream' st    so   distant 

hovers  near: 
Her  love  it  is  that  thrills  the  sunset  air 
With  mystic  motions  from  a  time  that's 

fled. 
Long  past   and   gone,    in  sooth,  — but, 
oh!  not  dead! 


MARGUERITE. 


143 


The   drowsv    murmur    of    cool    brooks  And  the  mild  lustre  of  eve"s  earliest 


below; 

The  soft,  slow  clouds  that  seem  to  m  use 
on  high ; 


star. 
Oh.   such,   so   pure,   so   bright,   these 
memories  are! 


Love-notes  of  hidden  birds,  that  come       Earth's   warmth  and    Heaven's   serene 


and  go, 
Making  a  sentient  rapture  of  the  sky; 
All  the  rare  season's  peaceful  sorcery, 
These    hints    of    cordial    joys     forever 

fled, 
Joys  past,  indeed,  and  yet  they  are  not 
dead : 

Far  from  the  motley  throng  of   sordid 
men. 
From   fashion    far,   mean   strife  and 
frenzied  gain. 
In   those   dear    days    through    many   a 
mountain  glen, 
By  mountain   streams,  and   fields   of 

rippling  grain. 
We   roamed  untouched  by   Passion's 
feverish  pain, 
But      quaffing     Friendship's      tranquil 

draughts  instead. 
Its  waters  clear  whose  sweetness  is  not 
dead ! 

Above  that  nook  of   fair  remembrance 
stands 


around  them  spread. 
They  pass,  they  wane,  but,  sweet!  they 
are  not  dead ! 


SONNET. 

HA  st  thou  beheld  a  landscape  dull  and 
bare, 
On  which,  at  times,  a  flying  gleam  was 

shed 
From  some  shy  sunbeam  shifting  over- 
head, 
That  made  the  scene  for  one  brief  mo- 
ment fair  ? 
Such  is  the  light,  so  transient,  flickering, 
rare. 
Which,    from    fate's    sullen    heavens 

above  me  spread. 
Hath  flushed  the  path  my  weary  foot- 
steps tread. 
And  lent  to  darkness  glimpses  of  sweet 

cheer. 
Alas !  alas !  that  I,  whose  soul  doth  burn 
With  such  deep  passion  for  a  steadfast 
bliss. 


A  dove-eyed  Faith,  that  falters  not,       Mustbend  forever  o'er  hope's  burial  urn 


nor  sleeps ; 
~No  flowers  of  Lethe  droop  in  her  white 

hands. 
And  if  the  watch  that  steadfast  angel 

keeps 
Be  pensive  and  some  transient  tears 

she  weeps, 
They  are   but  tears  a  fond  regret  may 

shed 
O'er  twilight  joys   which  fade,  but  are       She  was  a  child  of  gentlest  air. 


And  greet    even    love   with    a    half- 
mournful  kiss ! 
In  sooth,  what  stern,  malignant  doom 
is  this  ? 
Jov !  delicate  Ariel !  ah !  return !  return ! 


MARGUERITE. 


not  dead! 


Of  deep-dark  eyes,  but  golden  hair, 
And,  ah!  I  loved  her  unaware. 
Marguerite ! 


Not  dead!   not  dead!   but  glorified  and 

fair. 

Like    yonder    marvellous    cloudland  She  spelled  me  with  those  midnight  eyes, 

floating  far  The  sweetness  of  her  naive  replies, 

Between  the  mellowing   sunset's  amber  And  all  her  innocent  sorceries. 

air  Marguerite ! 


144 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


The  fever  of  my  soul  grew  calm 
Beneath  her  smile  that  healed  like  balm, 
Her  words  were  holier  than  a  psalm, 
Marguerite ! 

But  'twixt  us  yawned  a  gulf  of  fate. 
Whose  blackness  I  beheld,  —  too  late. 
0  Christ!   that  love  should  smite  like 
hate. 

Marguerite ! 

She  did  not  wither  to  the  tomb, 
But  round  her  crept  a  tender  gloom 
More  touching  than  her  earliest  bloom, 
Marguerite ! 

The  sun  of  one  fair  hope  had  set, 
A  hope  she  dared  not  all  forget, 
Its  twilight  glory  kissed  her  yet,  — 
Marguerite ! 

And  ever  in  the  twilight  fair 
Moves  with  deep  eyes  and  golden  hair 
The  child  who  loved  me  unaware ! 
Marguerite ! 


APART. 

Come  not  with  empty  words  that  say, 
"  Your    strength    of    manhood    wastes 

away 
In  loug,  ignoble,  fruitless  years!" 
I  live  apart  from  pain  and  tears, 
Wherewith  the  ways  of  men  are  sown, 
Nor  dwell  I  loveless  and  alone; 
One  tender  spirit  shares  my  days, 
One  voice  is  swift  to  yield  me  praise, 
( hie  true  heart  beats  against  my  own! 
What  more,  what  more  could  man  desire 
Than  love  that  burns  a  steadfast  tire 
And  faith  that  ever  leads  him  higher 
Along  the  path    which  points  to  peace  ? 

Oh,  far  and  faint  I  hear  the  din 
Of  battle-blows,  and  mortal  sin 
From  out  the  stir  and  press  of  life; 
Those  hollow  muffled  sounds  of  strife 


Seem  rolled  from  thunder-clouds  up- 
curled 

About  a  dim  and  distant  world; 

Below  me,  in  the  sunless  gloom; 

But  round  my  brow  the  amaranths 
bloom 

Of  sober  joy  with  heart' s-ease  furled; 

For  more,  what  more  can  man  desire 

Than  love  that  burns  a  steadfast  tire. 

And  faith  that  ever  leads  him  higher. 

Where  all  the  jars  of  earth  shall  cease  ? 

A  present  glory  haunts  my  way, 

A  promise  of  diviner  day 

Illumes  the  flushed  horizon's  verge; 

And  fainter,  farther  still,  the  surge 

Of  buffeting  waves  that  beat  and  roar 

Up  the  dim  world's  tempestuous  shore 

Beneath  me  in  the  moonless  airs ; 

Alas,  its  passions,  sorrows,  cares! 

Alas,  its  fathomless  despairs! 

Yet  dreams,  vague  dreams,  they  seem  to 

me, 
On  these  clear  heights  of  liberty, 
These  summits  of  serene  desire.  — 
Whence  love  ascends,  a  quenchless  tire. 
And  sweet  faith  ever  leads  me  higher 
To  pearly  paths  of  perfect  peace ! 


THE   LOTOS  AXD    THE  LILY. 

The  little  poems  which  follow  were  sug- 
gested by  an  oriental  idea  developed  in  Alger's 
"  Specimens  of  Eastern  Poetry."  The  moon 
is  strangely  spoken  of  as  masculine. 

THE     LOTOS. 

DEOOPING  in  the  sunlit  streams, 
We  are  wrapped  all  day  in  dreams; 

Morn  and  noon  and  evening  light 
Bobed  for  us  in  garbs  of  night. 

Only  when  the  moon  appears 
Through  a  silvery  mist  of  tears, 

From  the  waters  dark  and  still, 
We  arise  to  drink  our  fill 


THE   LOTOS   AND    THE   LILY 


145 


Of  the  tender  love  lie  sheds 
On  our  fair  enamored  heads. 

Ah !  no  longer  wrapped  in  dreams, 
How  we  pant  beneath  his  beams ! 

How,  with  breath  of  softest  sighs, 
We  unclose  our  yearning  eyes, 


And  our  snowy  necks  in  pride 
Curve  about  the  glittering  tide! 

Warmth  for  warmth  and  kiss  for  kiss, 
All  our  pulses  burn  with  bliss, 

Till  revealed  our  inmost  charms 
Glowing  in  the  night-god's  arms. 


'  View  us.  white  robed  lilies. 

We,  whose  beauty's  rareness 
Sleeps  until  the  bridegroom  sun 
Woos  our  virgin  fairness." 


TIIK    LILY. 


View  us,  white-robed  lilies. 

We  whose  beauty's  rareness 
Sleeps  until  the  bridegroom  Sun 

Woos  our  virgin  fairness. 

Then,  our  bosoms  baring, 
'Xeath  his  ardent  kisses, 

Stem,  and  leaf,  and  delicate  heart 
Trembling  into  blisses, 


The  full,  fervid  godhead 
Thrills  our  being  tender. 

And  our  happy  souls  expand 
In  ecstatic  splendor. 

Thus  all,  all  we  yield  him 
Of  our  shrined  sweetness, — 

All  that  maiden  warmth  may  grant 
To  true  love's  completeness, 


146 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS, 


WINDLESS   RAIN. 

The  rain,  the  desolate  rain! 

Ceaseless,  and  solemn,  and  chill! 
How  it  drips  on  the  misty  pane. 

How  it  drenches  the  darkened  sill ! 
O  scene  of  sorrow  and  dearth ! 

1  would  that  the  wind  awaking 
To  a  tierce  and  gusty  birth, 

Might  vary  this  dull  refrain 
Of  the  rain,  the  desolate  rain : 
For  the  heart  of  heaven  seems  breaking 
In  tears  o'er  the  fallen  earth. 
And  again,  again,  again 
We  list  to  the  sombre  strain. 
The  faint,  cold  monotone  — 
Whose  soul  is  a  mystic  moan  — 
Of  the  rain,  the  mournful  rain, 
The  soft,  despairing  rain! 

The  rain,  the  murmurous  rain! 

Weary,  passionless,  slow, 
'Tis  the  rhythm  of  settled  sorrow, 

'Tis  the  sobbing  of  cureless  woe! 
And  all  the  tragic  of  life. 

The  pathos  of  Long- Ago, 

Conies  back  on  the  sad  refrain 
Of  the  rain,  the  dreary  rain. 
Till  the  graves  in  my  heart  unclose. 

And  the  dead  that  its  depths  enfold, 
From  a  solemn  and  weird  repose 

Awake, — but  with  eyelids  cold, 
And  voices  that  melt  in  pain 
On  the  tide  of  the  plaintive  rain, 
The  yearning,  hopeless  rain, 
The  long,  low,  whispering  rain! 


"IN  UTROQUE  FIDELIS." 

Along  the  woods  the  whispering  night- 
airs  swoon, 
A  single  bird-note  dies  adown  the  trees, 
Clear,  pallid,  mournful,  droops  the  sum- 
mer moon. 
Dipped    in    the   foam   of    cloudland*s 
phantom  seas ;  — 
Soundless  they  heave  above 
The,  dim,  ancestral  home  that  holds  my 
love. 


xiow  breathless  still!    A  mystic  glamour 
keeps 
Calm  watch  and  ward  o'er  this  weird. 
drowsy  hour: 
Ton  heaven's  at  peace,  the   earth   be- 
nignly sleeps; 
And   thou,   thou   slumberest  too,  my 
woodland  flower. — 
Fair  lily  steeped  in  light 
And   happy   visions   of   the  marvellous 
night! 

I  waft   a  sigh   from   this   fond   soul   to 
thine.  — 
A  little  sigh,  yet  honey-laden,  dear, 
With  fairy  freightage  of  such  hopes  di- 
vine 
As  fain  woidd  flutter  gently  at  thine 
ear. 
And,  entering,  find  their  way 
Down  to  the  heart  so  veiled  from  me  by 
day. 

In  dreams,  in  dreams,  perchance,   thou 
art  not  coy; 
And  one  keen  hope  more  bold  than  all 
the  rest 
May  touch  thy  spirit  with  a  tremulous 
joy, 
And  stir  an  answering  softness  in  thy 
breast: 
O  sleep !  O  blest  eclipse ! 
What  murmured  word  is  faltering  at  her 
lips '? 

Awake    for    one   brief  moment,  genial 
South: 
Breathe  o'er  her  slumbers,  —  waft  that 
word  to  me. 
Warm  with  the  fragrance  of  her  rosebud 
mouth, 
Enwreathed  in  smiles  of  dreamful  fan- 
tasy : 
Come,  whisper,  low  and  light. 
The    name   which   haunts   her    maiden 
trance  to-night. 

Still,  breathless-still!  Xo  voice  in  earth 
or  air: 
I  only  know  my  delicate  darling  lies, 


CHLORIS. 


147 


A    twilight    lustre    glimmering   in   her 
hair, 
And  dews  of  peace  within  her  languid 
eyes : 
Yea,  only  know  that  I 
Am  called  from  love  and  dreams,  per- 
haps to  die,  — 

Die  when  the  heavens  are  thick  with 
scarlet  rain, 
And  every  time-throb's  fated:    even 
there 
Her  face  would  shine  through  mists  of 
mortal  pain, 
And  sweeten  death,  like  some  incar- 
nate prayer: 
Hark!  'tis  the  trumpet's  swell! 
O  love !    O   dreams !    farewell,   farewell, 
farewell ! 


NATURE,  BETROTHED  AXD  WEDDED. 

Have  you  not  noted  how  in  early  spring, 

From  out  the  forests,  past  the  murmur- 
ing brooks, 

O'er  the  hillsides,  Nature,  with  airy 
grace, 

Like  some  fair  virgin,  touched  by  lights 
and  shades, 

Glides  timidly,  a  veil  of  golden  mist 

About  her  brows,  and  budding  bosom 
draped 

In  maiden  coyness  ?  She's  a  bride  be- 
trothed 

Unto  that  mystic  god,  who  comes  from 
far, 

Eich  Orient  lands  upon  the  winds  of 
June, 

That  bear  him  like  swift  ardors,  winged 
with  fire; 

And  when,  on  some  calm,  lustrous  morn, 
her  lord 

Uplifts  the  golden  veil,  and  weds  to  hers 

The  quickening  warmth  of  ripe,  immor- 
tal lips, 

How  the  broad  earth  leaps  into  raptured 
life, 

And  thrills  with  music ! 


Then  a  queenly  spouse 
Raised  unto  fruitful  empire,  through  all 

hours 
Of  bounteous  summer,  she  walks  proudly 

on, 
Shining  with  blissful  eyes  of  matronhood, 
Till,  at  the  last,  autumn,  with  reverent 

hand, 
Doth   crown   her  with   such  full,  com- 
pleted joy, 
Such  wealth   of   sovereign  beauty,   she 

once  more 
About  her  brows  and  sumptuous  bosom 

folds 
That  golden  veil,  —  not  in  the  tremulous 

fear 
Of  maiden   coyness  now,  but  lest  rash 

men, 
Drawn   by  her  awful  loveliness,  should 

dare 
To  gaze  too  closely  on  it,  and  thus  fall, 
Smitten  and  blind,  at  her  imperial  feet  I 


CHLORIS. 

WnAT  time  the  rosy-flushing  West 
Sleeps  soft  on  copse  and  dingle, 

"Wherein  the  sunset  shadows  rest, 
Or  richly  float  and  mingle ; 

When  down  the  vale  the  wood-dove' s  tone 

Thrills  in  a  cadence  tender. 
And  every  rare,  ethereal  mote 

Turns  to  a  winged  splendor. 

Just  as  the  mystic  cloudlands  ope, 
Far  up  their  sapphire  portal. 

Fair  as  the  fairest  dream  of  Hope, 
Half  goddess  and  half  mortal, 

I  see  that  lovely  genius  rise, 
That  child  of  Orient  trances. 

On  whose  sweet  face  the  glory  lies 
Of  weird  Hellenic  fancies.  — 

Chloris !  beneath  whose  proereant  tread 
All  earth  yields  up  her  sweetness,  — 

The  violet's  scent,  the  rose's  red, 
The  dahlia's  orbed  completeness, 


148 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


And  verdures  on  the  myriad  hills, 
The  breath  of  her  pure  duty 

Hath  nursed  to  life  by  sparkling  rills 
And  foliaged  nooks  of  beauty; 

Till  bloom  and  odor,  blush  and  song, 
So  rill  earth's  radiant  spaces. 

The  fading  touch  of  sin,  or  wrong, 
Leaves  glad  the  weariest  faces ; 

And  so,  through  happy  spring-tide  dells, 
O'er  mount,  and  field,  and  river, 

Her  zephyr's  fairy  clarion  swells, 
Her  footsteps  glance  forever ! 


FORTUNIO. 

A  PARABLE  FOR  THE  TIMES.  • 

Who  at  the  court  of  Astolf,  the  great 

King, 
King  of  a  realm  of  firs,  and  icy  floes, 
Cold  bright  fiords,  and  mountains  capped 

with  clouds. 
Who  there  so  loved  and  honored  as  the 

knight, 
The  youthful  knight  Fortunio  ?   Whence 

he  came, 
None  knew,  nor  whom  his  kindred:  at 

a  bound 
He  passed  all  rivals  moving  towards  the 

throne, 
And  stood  firm-poised  above  them ;  yet 

with  mien 
So  sweet  it    honeyed    envy,    and    sur- 
prised 
The  bitterest  railers  into  complaisance ! 
Low-voiced  and  delicate-featured,  with 

a  cheek 
As  soft  as  peach  down,  or  the  golden 

dust 
Shrined    in   a   maiden    lily's    heart   of 

hearts, 
Yet  a  stern  will  bent  bowlike,  with  the 

shaft 
Of  some  keen  purpose  swiftly  drawn  to 

head, 
Or  launched  unerring  at  its  lofty  mark, 


Eose  thrilled  with  action,  or  high  strung 

at  aim, 
Beneath    his  jewelled  doublet!    While 

the  hand 
So  warm,  so  white,  and  wont  to  press 

the  palm 
In  palpitating  clasp  of  fair  sixteen, 
Could  wield   the  ponderous  battle-axe, 

or  flash 
The  lightning    rapier  in  the    foeman's 

eyes. 
Prince   of   the  tourney  and  the  dance 

alike. 
War's  fiercer  lists  had  seen  his  furrow- 
less  brow 
Flushed  red  with  heat  of  battle,  heard 

his  voice 
Shrilled     clear    beyond     the    clarions, 

mount  and  break 
In  larklike  song  far  o'er  the  mists   of 

blood, 
Through      victory's     calmer      heaven. 

Mixed  love  and  fear, 
With  love  ofttimes  preponderant,  girded 

him 
Closely  as  with  an  atmosphere  disturbed 
Only   by   hints    of   thunder,    ghosts   of 

cloud. 
But  love,  all  love,  love  in  her  passionate 

eyes, 
Love  'twixt  the  pure  twin  rosebuds  of 

her  mouth, 
Love  in  the  arch  of  brooding,  beauteous 

brows, 
And    every   wavering    dimple  wherein 

smiles 
At  hide-and-seek  with  sly,  mock  frown- 

ings  played, — 
All  love  was  Freyla,  though  a  princess 

she, 
For   this    unknown   Fortunio!    Wildly 

beat 
And  burned  her  heart  at  each  soft  glance 

he  gave, 
Or  softer  word,  albeit  as  yet  unthrilled 
By  answering  passion!     Swiftly  flew  her 

dreams 
Birdlike    on    balmy    winds    of    fancy 

borne, 


FOBTUNIO. 


149 


To  bridal  realms  empurpled  and  di- 
vine,— 

Alas!  but  Scorn,  that  long  had  lurked 
and  spied 

In  ambush,  shot  its  sudden  bolts,  and 
brought 

Those  winged  dreams  transfixed  to  earth 
and  dead ! 


While  Rage,  Scorn's  ally,  in  her  father's 

breast, 
Clutched     the    sweet    dreamer   rudely, 

dragged  her  soul 
Into  the  garish  glare  of  commonplace 
(Soon  to  be  lit  by  horror's  lurid  star!) 
And  so  convulsed  her  tenderness  with 

threats, 


"King  of  a  realm  of  firs,  and  icy  floes, 
Cold  bright  fiords,  and  mountains  capped  with  clouds." 


That  all  her  being  seemed  collapsed  to  fall 

Crushed,  as  in  moral  earthquake :  ' '  Dot- 
ing fool," 

Outshrieked  the  King,  "dost  dream 
great  Odin's  blood 

(  ould  mix  with  veins  plebeian  ?  Purge 
thy  thoughts, 

Unvirgined,  vile,  of  sacrilegious  sin! 

But  for  this  boy.  our  twelvemonth's 
grace  hath  raised 

So  high,  a  moment's  justice  shall  cast 
down 

To  fathomless  depths  of  ruin! " 


Wherewithal 

(Harping  on  justice  still,  though  justice 

slept ) 
The  King  decreed,  "  This  youth  Fortu- 

nio  dies! " 
So.  on  a  bright  spring  morn,  the  knight 

stood  up. 
Fronting  the  royal  doomsmen,   with   a 

•  face 
Sublimely  calm:    they  tore  his  bravery 

off. 
His     jewelled     vest    and    knighthood's 

golden  spurs, 


150 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


And  bared  his  heart  to  catch  the  arrowy 

But   on    the    soft    white   bosom    which 

hail- 

enspheres 

When  lo!  beneath  those  rough,  disrob- 

The sacred  charms  of  perfect  woman- 

ing hands, 

hood  ! 

The    danger  ous,    lewd    seducer,    coyly 

bowed, 
Outbeained  a  virgin  beauty  chaste  and 

fair .' 

A  FEUDAL  PICTURE. 

The  King,  beholding,  started,  and  then 

[Scene— The  Corridor  of  a  Palace.    Per- 
sons— A    young    Knight     and    his    Mentor. 

smiled: 

Time  —  The  Fourteenth  Century.] 

"  Thou  wanton  madcap,"  said  he,  "go 

in  peace ! ' ' 

MENTOR. 

With  what   a    grace  she   passed  us  by 

0  cordial  eyes,  the  brown  eyes  and  the 

just  now! 

blue, 

Her  delicate  chin  half  raised,  her  cordial 

Or   ye   dark  eyes,  with  deeps  like  mid- 

brow 

night  heavens, 

A  cloudless  heaven  of  biand  benignities ! 

Where  unirnagined  worlds   of  thought 

What  tempered  lustre  too  in  her  dove's 

and  love 

eyes, 

Shine   starlike,  would   ye   quench    your 

Just  touched   to   archness   by  the   eye- 

glorious rays 

brow's  curve, 

In  the  low  levels  of  the  lives  of  men  ? 

And    those    quick    dimples  which    the 

O  gracious  souls  of  women  tender-sweet, 

mouth's  reserve 

And  luminous  with  goodness,  would  ye 

Stir    and    break    up,    as  sunlit    ripples 

soil 

break 

Your  nascent  angel-plumage  in  the  stye 

The  cool,  clear  calmness  of  a  mountain 

Of  sordid  worldliness  ?     Be  warned,  be 

lake! 

warned! 

A  woman  in  whom  majesty  and  sweet- 

Set not  the  frail   spears    of    your  rash 

ness 

caprice 

Blend  to  such  issues  of  serene  complete- 

In rest  against  great  Nature's  pierceless 

ness, 

shield; 

That   to   gaze   on   luer   were   a   prince's 

Strive  not  to  grasp  monopolies  impure, 

boon! 

Man's   fated   heritage.     Be   warned,  be 

The  calm  of  evening,  the  large  pomp  of 

warned ! 

noon, 

For  surely  as  yon  bright  sun  dawns  and 

Are  hers;  soft  May  morns  melting  into 

dies. 

June, 

And  sure  as  Nature,  all  immutable, 

Hold  not  such  tender  languishments  as 

Year  after  year   completes   her  mystic 

those 

round 

Which  steep    her   in    that    dew-light  of 

Through  law's  vast  orbit,  —  so  ye  des- 

repose, 

perate  Fair, 

That  floats  a  dreamy  balm  around  the 

Arrayed  against  the  eternal  force  of  God, 

full-blown  rose:  — 

Must    fall    discomfited,    and    like    that 

And  yet.  'tis  not  her  beauty,  though  so 

knight, 

bright 

The  false  Fortunio,  rest  your  claims  at 

(Clear  moon-fire  mixed  with  sun-flame), 

last, 

nor  the  light, 

Not  on  deft  spells  of  simulated  power, 

Transparent  charm  we  feel  so  exquisite, 

A  FEUDAL  PICTURE. 


151 


Whereby  she's   compassed   as  a  wizard 

And  her  deft  desert  paces !)  —  one  breath 

star 

more ! 

By  its  own  life-airl  'tis  not  one,  nor  all 
Of  these,  whereby  we're  mastered,  Sir, 

and  fall 
Slavelike    before    her:    doubtless    such 

And  you'll  behold  the  spouting  of  fresh 

gore, 
Heart  blood  that's  human!  —  can  aught 

save  him  now  ?  — 

things  are 

Potent  as  spells, — still  there's  a  some- 
thing fine, 

Subtler    than    hoar-rime    in    the    faint 

Hist!    the   sharp   crackle   of    a  blasted 

boxigh, 
Whence  flies  a  huge  hill-eagle,  rustling 
O'er  the  boy's  forehead  his  vast  breadths 

moonshine, 

of  wing, 

More  potent  yet !  —  an  undefined  art, 
'Twere   vain   to   question:    your  whole 
being,  heart. 

And    sweeping    as    a    half-seen   shade. 

'twould  seem, 
Betwixt     his    startled     spirit,     and    its 

Brain,   blood,  seem  lapsing  from  you, 

fired  and  fused 
In     hers.  —  a    terrible     power,    and    if 

abused  

But  by  St.  Peter!  'tis  not  safe  to  talk 

dream; 
He's  roused!    espies  his   danger!    at   a 

bound 
Leaps    into   safety    where    the    low-set 

ground 

Of  yon  weird  woman !  turn  now !  watch 

her  walk 
'Twixt  the  tall   tiger-lilies, — there's  a 

free, 

Is  buttressed    'neath    two    giant    crags 

thereby 
(Now  hark  ye !  'tis  no  pictured  phantasy, 
This  scene,  myAnslem!   but  all's  true 

Brave  grace  in  every  step,  —  but  still  to 

me, 
It  hath  —  I  know  not  what  —  of  covert- 

ness, 

and  clear 
Before  me,  though  fidl  many  a  weary 

year 
Has  waxed  and  waned  since  then ) : 

Cunning,   and   cruel  purpose!   can  you 

My  meaning  prithee  ?  foolish  youth,  be- 

guess 
The    picture    it   brings  up  ?  —  a  lonely 

rock 
From  which  a  young  Bedouin  guards  his 

flock, 
In  the  swart  desert:  —  there's  a  tawny 

band, 
A  curved  and  tangled  pathway  of  loose 

sand, 

ware  ! 

There's  treachery  lurking  in  the  gay 
parterre, 

As  in  the  hoary  desert's  silentness, 

And  dreams  with  danger,  death  per- 
chance behind, 

May  lull  young  sleepers  in  the  perfumed 
wind, 

Which  hardly  lifts    the  tiniest  truant 

Winding  above  him;  —  the  tranced  airs 

make  dim 
His     slumberous     senses! — his     great 

brown  eyes  swim 

tress 
It    toys    with     coyly,    of    a    woman's 

hair: 
Our  sternest  fates  have  risen  in  forms  as 

In  th'   mist  of   dreams,   when  gliding 

with  mute  tread 
Forth    from    the    thorn-trees,   o'er  his 

fair, 
As  —  let  us  say  for  lack  of  similes,  — 
As,   hers,  who  bends    now    with   such 

nodding  head, 
Moves  a  lithe-bodied  panther;  —  (God! 

how  fair 
The  beast  is,  with  her  moony-spotted 

hair, 

gracious  ease, 
O'er  her  rich  tulip-beds! 

Were  I  the  bird, 
Wert  thou  the  shepherd  Anslem  of  my 

tale, 

152 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


DRIFTING. 


(And  that  thou  hast  not  hearkened,  boy, 

unstirred 

Is  clear,  albeit  thou  need'st  not  wax  so  I    I  have  settled  at  last  in  a  sombre  nook, 

pale).  ;    In    the    far-off    heart   of    the    Norland 

What  would  true  wisdom  whisper,  now  ;                   hills, 

'tis  done,  There's   a   dark    pine,   forest  before  my 

My  warning,  and  thy  day-dream  in  the  gates, 

sun  '?  i   And  behind  is  the  voice  of  rills 

What!  why,  her  mandate's  plain:  I  hear  |   That  murmur  all  day,  and  murmur  all 

her  say,  night, 

"Young    Knight!    to   horse!    leave   the  Through   the   tangled  copses  green  and 


Queen's  Court  to-day ! '  ' 


THE    WARNING. 

Patience!  I  yet  may  pierce  the  rind 
Wherewith  are  shrewdly  girded  round 
The  subtle  secrets  of  his  mind : 
A  dark,  unwholesome  core  is  bound 
Perchance  within  it!     Sir,  you  see, 
Men  are  not  what  they  seem  to  be ! 

A  candid  mien  and  plausible  tongue! 
A  bearing  calmly  frank  and  fair, 
The  tear  ('twould  seem)  by  pity  wrung. 
All  these  are  his,  but  still,  beware! 
A  something  strange,  false,  unbegot 
Of  virtue,  whispers,  trust  him  not: 
But  yesterday,  his  mask  (I  know 
He  wears  one),  for  a  moment's  space, 
By  chance  dropped  off  and  swift  below 
The  smile  just  waning  on  his  face, 
1  caught  a  look,  flashed  sudden,  keen 
As  lightning,  which  he  deemed  unseen. 

I  will  not  pause  to  tell  thee  what 
That  look  betrayed !  enough  I  think, 
To  smite  the  spirit  cold  and  hot. 
By  turns,  and  make  one  inly  shrink 
From  contact  with  a  soul  that  keeps 
Such  wild-fire  smouldering  in  its  deeps: 
So  friend,  be  warned!  he  is  not  one 
Thy    youth    should    trust,    for    all    his 

smiles, 
Frank  foreheads,  genial  as  the  sun. 
May  hide  a  thousand  treacherous  wiles, 
And  tones,  like  music's  honeyed  flow, 
May  work  (God  knows!)   the   bitterest 

woe ! 


lone. 
Where,    couched    in   the  depths   of   the 

shadowy  leaves, 
The  wood-dove  makes  her  moan. 

My  home  is  a  castle  ancient  and  worn. 
With  hoary  walls,   and  with  crumbling 

floors, 
And  the  burglar-winds  their    entrance 

force 
Through     the     robwebbed     panes    and 

doors. 
I  can  hardly  say  that  a  roof  is  mine. 
For   whene'er    the   mountain    tempests 

rise, 
A  deluge  is  poured  through  its  countless 

rents. 
Wide  open  to  air  and  skies ! 

Ah !  Nature  alone  keeps  a  wholesome 
mien, 

In  the  midst  of  a  squalor  wildly  bare. 

And  I  draw  sometimes  from  her  bounte- 
ous breast 

Brief  balms  for  the  heart's  despair: 

All  human  friends  that  were  loyal  have 
died. 

And  the  false  and  treacherous  only 
stay, 

To  poison  the  soul  with  their  serpent 
tongues 

In  my  fortune's  dull  decay! 

Distant  and  dim  in  the  perishing  past 
Grow  the  joys  that  made  its  springtime 

sweet, 
And    the    last  of  the   saving  angels  — 

Hope  — 


SONNETS. 


153 


Hath  spurned  iny  lot  with  her  shining 

feet ; 
Ambition  is  dead,  and  if  love  survives, 
Her  lip,  it  is  pale,  and  her  eyes  forlorn 
As    beams    of    the    waning    stars   that 

melt 
In  a  clouded  winter's  morn. 
I  have  met  my  fate  as  a  man  should  meet 
What   cannot   be   vanquished,    nor  put 

aside, 
I  have  striven  with  spirit  and  force  to 

stem 
Its  rushing  and  mighty  tide ; 
But  the  godlike  nerve,  and  the  iron  will, 
They  were  not  granted  to  me,  I  say, 
And  therefore  a  waif  on  an  angry  sea, 
I  am  drifting,  drifting  away ! 

Ay!  drifting,  and  drifting,  and  drifting 

away, 
Xot  a  hand  upraised,  nor  a  cry  for  aid; 
And  hoarser  the  voice  of  the  storm-wind 

swells, 
And  darker  the  wild  night-shade ; 
There  are  breakers  ahead  that  will  crush 

me  soon, 
How  much,   O   God!    do   thy  creatures 

bear ! 
I  marvel  if  somewhere,    in   heaven  or 

hell, 
This  riddle  of  life  grows  clear! 


SONNETS. 


LEIGH    HU>TT. 


''Leigh  Hunt  loves  everything;  he  catches 
the  sunny  side  of  everything,  and  —  except  a 
few  polemical  antipathies  —  finds  everything 
beautiful." — Hexky  Ceabb  Robinson. 

Despite  misfortune,  poverty,  the  dearth 
Of  simplest  justice    to    his  heart   and 

brain. 
This  gracious  optimist  lived  not  in  vain ; 
Bather,  he  made  a  partial    Heaven  of 

Earth ; 
For  whatsoe'er  of  pure  and  cordial  birth 
In  body  or  soul  dawned  on  him,  he  was 

fain 


To  bless  and  love,  as  an  immortal  gain 
A   tbing    divine,    of    fair    immaculate 

worth :  — 
The  clearest,   cleanest   nature  given  to 

man 
In  these,  our  latter  days,  methinks  was 

his. 
With  instincts  which    alone  did   bring 

him  bliss; 
All  life  he  viewed  as  one  long,  luminous 

plan 
Wherein  God's  love  and  wisdom  meet 

and  kiss,  — 
His  sole  brave  creed,  the  creed  Samari- 
tan ! 

SOUL-  ADVANCES. 

He,  who  with  fervent  toil  and  will  aus- 
tere, 
His  innate  forces  and  high  faculties 
Develops  ever,  with  firm  aim,  and  wise, 
He  only  keeps  his  spiritual  vision  clear; 
To    him    earth's    treacherous    shadows 

sh^ft  and  veer 
Like  idle   mists  o'ercrowding   windless 

skies, 
Where  through  ofttimes  to  purged  and 

prayerful  eyes. 
The  steadfast  heavens  seem  beckoning 

calm  and  near : 
Still  o'er  life's  rugged  heights,  with  many 

a  slip. 
And  painful  pause  he  journeys,  and  sad 

fall. 
Toward  death's  dark  strand,  washed  by 

a  mystic  sea; 
There  her  worn   cable    straining  to  be 

free, 
He  sees,  and  enters  Faith's  majestic  ship, 
To  sail  —  where'er  the  voice  of  God  may 

call .' 

CAROLINA. 

That  fair  young  land  which  gave  me 

birth  is  dead ! 
Lost  as  a  fallen  star  that  quivering  dies 
Down   the   pale  pathway   of    autumnal 

skies, 


154 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


A  vague  faint  radiance  flickering  where 
it  fled : 


Is't  so  with  man?   holds  not  the  dark- 
ened breast, 


All   she   hath   wrought,    all    she    hath   i    Turbid,  corrupt,  o'ergrown  by  worldli- 


plamied  or  said, 

Her  golden  eloquence,  her  high  emprise 

Wrecked,  on  the  languid  shore  of  Lethe 
lies, 

While  cold  Oblivion  veils  her  piteous 
head : * 

O  mother !  loved  and  loveliest !  debonair 

As  some  brave  queen  of  antique  chiv- 
alries. 

Thy  beauty's  blasted  like  thy  desolate 
coasts  ;  — 

Where  now  thy  lustrous  form,  thy  shin- 
ing hair  ? 

Where  thy  bright  presence,  thine  impe- 
rial eyes  ? 

Lost  in  dim  shadows  of  the  realm  of 
Ghosts ! 


In  yonder  grim,  funereal  forest  lies 

A  foul  lagoon,   o'erfihned  by  dust  and 

slime, 
Hidden  and  ghastly,  like  a  thought   of 

crime 
In   some   stern   soul    kept  secret    from 

men's  eyes: 
But    if    perchance    a   healthful    breeze 

should  rise, 
And  part  those  stifling  boughs,   sweet 

morning's  prime, 
And  the  fair  flush  of  evening's  cordial 

clime, 
Reflect  therein  the  calmly  glorious  skies: 


*  This  may  be  esteemed  an  exaggeration  :  but 
really  it  is  the  sober  and  melancholy  truth. 
The  fame  of  the  great  statesmen  and  orators, 
for  example,  who  once  flourished  in  South 
Carolina,  and  made  her  name  illustrious  from 
one  end  of  the  Union  to  the  other,  is  fast  be- 
coming a  mere  shadowy  tradition.  With  a 
single  exception,  their  works  have  never  been 
collected  for  publication,  nor  have  their  lives 
been  written,  unless  in  the  most  fragmentary 
and  imperfect  fashion.  The  period  during 
which  these  things  might  have  been  rightly 
done  has  forever  passed. 


ness, 

One  little  spot  whereon  love's  smile  may 
rest  ? 

Lo  !  a  pure  impulse  breathes,  the  sin- 
clouds  part, 

The  grief-defilements  melt  in  hopes  that 
bless, 

And  pour  God's  quickening  sunshine  on 
the  heart ! 


ODE    TO   SLEEP. 

Beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  amber  sea 
To  the  lone  depths  of  Ether,  cold  and 

bare, 
Thy  influence,  soul  of  all  tranquillity, 
Hallows  the  earth  and  awes  the  reverent 

air ; 
Yon  laughing  rivulet  quells  its   silvery 

tune. 
The  pines,  like  priestly  watchers  tall  and 

grim. 
Stand   mute,    against  the   pensive   twi- 
light dim, 
Breathless  to  hail   the    advent    of    the 

moon; 
From  the  white  beach  the  ocean  falls 

away 
Coyly,  and  with  a  thrill;  the  sea-birds 

dart 
Ghostlike  from    out   the   distance,  and 

depart 


Thus,  over  their  genius  and  performances,  as 
over  their  native  State,  — the  Carolina  of  old, 
—  oblivion,  day  by  day,  is  more  darkly  gather- 
ing. If  elements  of  a  new  political  birth  exist 
in  that  unfortunate  section,  they  are  now 
hopelessly  confused  and  chaotic! 

While  the  Past  recedes,  becoming  momently 
more  ghostly  and  phantasmal,  the  Future  is 
wrapped  in  thick  clouds  and  darkness!  Where, 
indeed,  is  the  prophet  or  son  of  a  prophet  who 
can  predict  the  nature  of  that  new  polity  des- 
tined to  rise  from  the  old  institutions  and  the 
defunct  civilization '? 


ODE    TO    SLEEP. 


155 


With  a  gray  fleetness,  moaning  the  dead 

day; 
The  wings  of  Silence  overfolding  space. 
Droop   with    dusk    grandeur  from   the 

heavenly  steep, 
And  through   the   stillness  gleams  thy 

starry  face, 
Serenest  Angel  —  Sleep! 

Come !  woo  me  here,  amid  these  flowery 
charms, 

Breathe  on  my  eyelids ;  press  thy  odor- 
ous lips 

Close   to  mine   own,  enwreathe   me   in 
thine  arms, 

And   cloud    my  spirit    with  thy  sweet 
eclipse ; 

No  dreams !   no  dreams !  keep  back  the 
motley  throng,  — 

For  such  are  girded  round  with  ghastly 
might. 

And  sing  low  burdens  of    despondent 
song. 

Decked   in   the   mockery  of   a  lost   de- 
light; 

I  ask  oblivion's  balsam!  the  mute  peace 

Toned  to  still  breathings,   and  the  gen- 
tlest sighs, 

Not  music  woven  of  rarest  harmonies 

Could  yield  me  such  elysium  of  release : 

The  tones  of  earth  are  weariness,  —  not 
only 

'Mid  the  loud  mart,  and  in  the  walks  of 
trade. 

But  where  the  mountain  Genius  broodeth 
lonely. 

In  the  cool  pulsing  of  the  sylvan  shade ; 

Then,  bear  me  far  into  thy  noiseless  land, 

Surround  me  with  thy  silence,  deep  on 
deep, 
Until  serene  I  stand 

Close  by  a  duskier  country,  and  more 
grand, 

Mysterious  solitude,  than  thine,  O  Sleep ! 

As  he   whose   veins   a  feverous  frenzy 

burns, 
Whose   life-blood   withers   in   the   fiery 

drought, 


Feebly,    and    with   a    languid    longing, 

turns 
To  the  spring  breezes  gathering  from  the 

South. 
So,  feebly,  and  with  languid  longing,  I 
Turn  to  thy  wished  Nepenthe,  and  im- 
plore 
The  golden  dimness,  the  purpureal  gloom 
Which  haunt  thy   poppied   realm,   and 

make  the  shore 
Of  thy  dominion  balmy  with  all  bloom : 
In  the  clear  gulfs  of  thy  serene  profound, 
Worn  passions  sink   to  quiet,    sorrows 

pause. 
Suddenly       fainting      to     still-breathed 

rest ; 
Thou    own' st    a    magical    atmosphere, 

which  awes 
The  memories  seething  in  the  turbulent 

breast ; 
Which  muffling  up  the  sharpness  of  all 

sound 
Of  mortal  lamentation,  — solely  bears 
The  silvery  minor  toning  of  our  woe, 
All     mellowed     to   harmonious    under- 
flow. 
Soft    as    the    sad     farewells    of    dying 

years,  — 
Lulling  as  sunset  showers  that  veil  the 

west, 

And  sweet  as  Love's  last  tears 
When    overwelling    hearts    do    mutely 

weep : 
O  griefs !  O  wailings !  your  tempestuous 

madness, 
Merged  in  a  regal  quietude  of  sadness, 
Wins  a  strange  glory  by  the  streams  of 

sleep! 

Then  woo  me  here  amid  those  flowery 
charms. 

Breathe  on  my  eyelids,  press  thy  odor- 
ous lips, 

Close  to  mine  own.  — enfold  me  in  thine 
arms, 

And  cloud  my  spirit  with  thy  sweet 
eclipse; 

And  while  from  waning  depth  to  depth 
I  fall, 


156 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


HOPES   AXD  MEMORIES. 


Down   lapsing  to  the  utmost  depths  of 

all, 
Till  wan    forgetf  ulness   obscurely  steal-       OUE  hopes  in  youth  are  like  those  rose- 


mg, 


ate  shadows 


Creeps  like  an  incantation  on  the  soul.  Cast  by  the  sunlight  on  the  dewy  grass 

And  o*er  the  slow  ebb  of  my  conscious    i    When  first  the  fair  morn  opes  her  sap- 


life 


phire  eyes ; 


Dies  the  thin  flush  of  the  last  conscious       They   seem    gigantic    and   yet   graceful 


feeling, 


shades, 


And  like  abortive  thunder,  the  dull   roll    :    Touched  with  bright  color.     As  our  sun 


Of  sullen  passions  ebbs  far,  far  away,  — 


of  life 


O  Angel!  loose  the  chords  which  cling    '    Eises  towards  meridian,  less  and  less 


to  strife, 
Sever    the    gossamer    bondage    of     my 
breath. 


Grow  the  bright  tremulous  shadows,  till 

at  last. 
In  t lie  hot  dust  and  noontide  of  our  clay, 


And   let   me   pass    gently   as   winds   in       They    glimmer    to   blank    nothingness. 


May, 


Again. 


From   the   dim    realm    which  owns  thy       That  grand  climacteric  passed,  the  shad- 


shadowy  sway. 
To  thy  diviner  sleep.  ( >  sacred  death! 


SOXG. 

()'.  to  be 

By  the  sea.  the  sea! 
While  a  brave  nor' wester' s  blowing, 

With  a  swirl  on  the  lee, 

<  )f  cloud-foam  free. 
And  a  spring-tide  deeply  flowing! 

With  the  low  moon  red  and  large. 

O'er  the  flushed  horizon's  marge. 
And  a  little  pink  hand  in  mine. 
On  the  sands  in  the  long  moonshine ! 

()!  to  be 

By  the  sea,  the  sea ! 
With  the  wind  full  wesl  and  dying. 

With  a  single  star 

( )'er  the  misty  liar. 
And  the  dim  waves  dreamily  sighing! 

<>!  to  be  there,  but  there! 

With  my  sweet  love  nestling  near! 


ows  gleam 
Bright  still,  perchance  (if  our  past  deeds 

1  >e  pure ) ,  — 
Bright  si  ill.  hut  all  reversed!  Eastward 

they  point, 
Lengthening      and      lengthening     ever 

toward  the  dawn : 
For  hopes  have  then  grown  memories, 

whose  strange  life 
Deepens  and  deepens  as  the  sunset  dies. 


WIDDEIilN'S  RACE. 

AUSTRALIAN. 

[The  incidents  of  the  following  sketch  Mill 
be  found  in  "The  Recollections  of  Geoffrey 
Hainlyu,"  by  Henry  Kingsley.] 

"A  horse  amongst  ten  thousand!   on 

the  verge, 
The  extremest  verge  of  equine    life  he 

stands; 
Yet  mark  his  action,  as  those  wild  young 

colts 


Near,   near,  till  her  heart-throbs  blend       Freed  from  the  stock-yard  gallop  whin- 


with  mil 


nying  up: 


Through  the  balmy  hush  of  the  night's       See  how  he  trots  towards  them,  —  nose 

decline.  in  air. 

On  the  glimmering  beach,    in   the  soft       Tail    arched,  and   his  still   sinewy   legs 


star-shine! 


out-thrown 


'Our  hopes  in  youth  are  like  those  roseate  shadows 
Cast  by  the  sunlight  on  the  dewy  grass." 


WIDDE BIN'S   RACE. 


157 


In  gallant  grace  before  him !     A  brave 

beast 
As  ever  spurned  the  moorland,  ay,  and 

more, 
He  bore  me  once, — such  words  but  smite 

the  truth, 
I'  the   outer  ring,  while  vivid   memory 

wakes, 
Recalling    now.    the    passion    and    the 

pain.  — 
He  bore  me  once  from  earthly  hell  to 

heaven ! 

"  The  sight  of  fine  old  Widderin  (that's 

his  name, 
Caught  from  a  peak,  the  topmost  rugged 

peak 
Of   tall    Mount    Widderin,  towering  to 

the  North 
Most  like  a  steed's  head,  with  full  nos- 
trils blown, 
And  ears   pricked   up), — the    sight    of 

Widderin  brings 
That  day  of    days     before   me,    whose 

strange  hours 
Of  fear  and   anguish,   ere    the    sunset, 

changed 
To  hours  of  such  content  and  full-veined 

joy. 
As  Heaven  can  give  our  mortal  lives  but 

once. 

"  Well,  here's  the  story:  While  yon  bush- 
fires  sweep 
The  distant  ranges,  and  the  river's  voice 
Pipes  a  thin  treble  through  the  heart  of 

drought, 
While  the  red   heaven  like  some  huge 

caldron's  top 
Seems  with  the  heat  a-simmering,  better 

far 
In  place  of  riding  tilt  'gainst  such  a  sun, 
Here  in  the  safe  veranda's  flowery  gloom, 
To  play  the  dwarfish  Homer  to  a  song, 
Whereof  myself  am  hero  : 

"  Two  decades 
Have  passed  since  that  wild  autumn-time 
wrhen  last 


The  convict  hordes  from  near  Tan  Die- 
men,  freed 

By  force  or  fraud,  swept,  like  a  blood- 
red  fire, 

Inland  from  beach  to  mountain,  bent  on 
raid 

And  rapine ;  fiends  o'  th'  lowest  pit,  they 
spared 

Xor  sex,  nor  age.  nor  infancy;  the  vul- 
ture 

Followed  their  track,  and  a  black  smoke 
like  hell's 

Hung  its  foul  reek  above  each  home 
accursed, 

Sacked  by  their  greed,  or  ravished  by 
their  lust. 

Their  crimes  were  monstrous,  weird, 
unutterable, 

Not  to  be  hinted,  save  in  awe-struck 
whispers 

Dropped  by  dark  hearthstones,  far  from 
maidens'  ears, 

In  the  blank  silent  midnight!  all  the 
land 

Uprose  to  seek,  confront  and  decimate 

These  devils  spawned  of  Tophet;  but 
their  bands 

At  the  first  bruit  of  battle,  the  first  clang 

Of  sabres  girding  honest  loins,  and 
champ 

Of  horse-bits  held  by  manly  hands  that 
burned 

To  smite  them,  hip  and  thigh,  —  tied, 
disappeared. 

And  crouched  in  hiding,  wheresoe'er  the 
earth. 

By  wave  and  hill-side,  forest,  and  bleak 
tarn. 

Vouchsafed  to  shield  them;  as  the  time 
rolled  on. 

Our  fears  grew  lighter,  and  all  dread  was 
quelled, 

When  on  a  morning,  'mid  the  outmost 
reefs 

Of  rough  Cape  Boiling,  our  chief  herds- 
man found 

The  carcass  of  a  huge  boat  overturned. 

All  stoven,  and  firmly  wedged  between 
the  jaws 


158 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS 


Of  monster  rocks,  whereby  three  bodies   !   At  dewy  dawning,  — on  this  marvellous 
lay,  morn, 

.Splashing  and  gurgling  in  the  refluent   '    I,  with  four  comrades,  in  this  self-same 
tides. 

Well  known  as  corses  of  three  desperate 
men, 

The  outlaws'  leaders;  thereupon   'twas 
deemed.  — 

And  all  must  own  with  fairest  likelihood, 

That    glutted    by    their    vengeance,   or 
spurred  on 

By   hopes   of    rapine,   beckoning  other- 
where, — 


spot. 

Watched  the  fair  scene,  and  drank  the 
spicy  airs, 

That  held  a  subtler  spirit  than  our  wine, 

And  talked  and  laughed,  and  mused  in 
idleness. 

Weaving  vague   fancies,   as    our    pipe- 
wreaths  curled 

Fantastic,    in    the    sunlight!      I,    with 
head 
The    whole    foul   crew    embarking,  had    i    Thrown    back,    and    cushioned    snugly, 


been  seized 
By  wind  and  wave,  God's  executioners, 
The  pitiless  doomsmen  of  the  wrath  of 

Heaven,  — 
And    so.    crushed    out    of    being,    and 

made  less 
Than  the  vile  seaweed  dabbling  in  the 

surf. 

"•Thenceforth,  our  caution  cooled; 
save  here  and  there. 

At  critical  mountain-passes,  or  lone 
caves, 

And  sheltered  inlets  of  the  wild  south- 
west, 

Xo  sentinels  watched;  and  wherefore 
should  they  watch  ? 

The  storm  had  threatened,  broken  and 
was  passed ! 

"So,  in  late  autumn, — 'twas  a  mar- 
vellous morn. 

With  breezes  from  the  calm  snow-river 
borne 

That  touched  the  air,  and  stirred  it  into 
thrills. 

Mysterious  and  mesmeric,  a  bright  mist 

Lapping  the  landscape  like  a  golden 
trance. 


and  with  eyes 
Intent   on   one    grotesque    and    curious 

cloud. 
Puffed    upward,    that    now   seemed   to 

take  the  shape 
Of  a  Dutch   tulip,    now    a    Turk's   face 

topped 
By  folds  on  folds  of  turban  limitless.  — 
Heard     suddenly,     just     as     the    clock 

chimed  one. 
To  melt  in  musical  echoes  up  the  hills. 
Quick  footsteps   on  the  gravelled   path 

without,  — 
Steps  of  the  couriers  of  calamity,  — 
So     my     heart     told     me.      ere      with 

blanched  regards. 
Two   stalwart  herdsmen  on  our  thresh- 
old paused. 
Panting,    with    lips   that   writhed,    and 

awful  eyes; 
A  breath's  space  in  each  other's  eyes  we 

glared, 
Then,  swift  as  interchange  of  lightning 

thrusts 
In  deadly  combat,  question  and  reply 
Clashed  sharply,  'What!  the  Rangers  ?' 

'  Ay,  by  Heaven! 
And  loosed  in  force.  — the  hell-hounds! ' 

•  Whither  bound  ?' 


Swathing    the    hilltops    with    fantastic       I    stammered,    hoarsely.     '  Bound.'  the 
veils,  elder  said. 

Southward!  —  four   stations    had   they 
sacked  and  burnt. 

-'  but  I 


And  o'er  the  moorland-ocean  quiverim 

light 
As  trossamer  threads   drawn   down   the   '   And  now.  drunk,  furious- 


forest  aisles 


stopped  to  hear 


WIDDERIN'S   RACE. 


159 


No    more:    with    booming    thunder  in 

mine  ears, 
And    blood-flushed    eyes,    1    rushed    to 

Widderin's  side. 
Drew  tight  the  girths,  upgathered  curb 

and  rein. 
And  sprang  to  horse  ere  yet  our  laggard 

friends. 
Now  trooping  from  the  green  veranda's 

shade, 
Could  dream  of  action ! 

"Love  had  winged  my  will, 
For  to  the  southward,   fair  Garoopna 

held 
My  all  of  hope,  life,  passion;  she  whose 

hair 
(Its  tiniest  strand  of  waving,  witch-like 

gold) 
Had   caught   my   heart,   entwined,   and 

bound  it  fast. 
As   'twere  some    sweet    enchantment's 

heavenly  net! 

"  I  only  gave  a  hand-wave  in  farewell. 
Shot  by,  and  o'er  the  endless  moorland 

swept 
(Endless    it    seemed,    as    those    weird, 

measureless  plains. 
Which  in  some  nightmare  vision,  stretch 

and  stretch 
Towards  infinity!)  like  some  lone  ship 
O'er  wastes  of   sailless  waters:   now.  a 

pine. 
The  beacon  pine  gigantic,  whose  grim 

crown 
Signals     the     far     land-mariner     from 

out 
Gaunt  boulders  of  the  gray-backed  Organ 

hill, 
Kose  on  my  sight,  a  mistlike,  wavering 

orb, 
The   while,    still   onward,    onward,    on- 
ward still, 
With  motion  winged,  elastic,  equable. 
Brave  Widderin   cleaved  the  air  tides. 

tossed  aside 
The  winds  as  waves  their  swift,  invisible. 

breasts. 


Hissing     with     foamlike     noise     when 

pressed  and  pierced 
By   that    keen    head    and    fiery-crested 

form ! 

"  The  lonely  shepherd  guardian  on  the 

plains. 
Watching    his    sheep    through    languid 

half-shut  eyes. 
Looked  up.  and  marvelled,  as  we  passed 

him  by, 
Thinking  perchance  it   was   a   glorious 

thing. 
So  dressed,  so  booted,  so  caparisoned. 
To  ride  such  bright  blood-coursers  unto 

death ! 
Two  sun-blacked  natives,  slumbering  in 

the  grass. 
Just  rose  betimes  to  "scape  the  trampling 

hoofs, 
And  hurled  hot  curses  at  me  as  1  sped : 
While  here  and  there,  the  timid  kanga- 
roo 
Blundered   athwart  the  mole-hills,    and 

in  puffs 
Of   steamy  dust-cloud   vanished   like   a 

mote ! 

"  Onward,  still  onward,  onward,  onward 
still! 

And  lo!  thank  Heaven,  the  mighty  Or- 
gan hill. 

That  seemed  a  dim  blue  cloudlet  at  the 
start. 

Hangs  in  aerial,  fluted  cliffs  aloft. 

And  still  as  through  the  long,  low  glacis 
borne. 

Beneath  the  gorge  borne  ever  at  wild 
speed. 

I  saw  the  mateless  mountain  eagle  wheel 

Beyond  the  stark  height's  topmost  pin- 
nacle ; 

I  heard  his  shriek  of  rage  and  ravin  die 

Deep  down  the  desolate  dells,  as  far  be- 
hind 

I  left  the  gorge  and  far  before  me  swept 

Another  plain,  tree-bordered  now.  and 
bound 

Bv  the  clear  river  gurgling  o*c-  its  bed. 


1(30 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


"  By  this,  my  panting,  but  unconquered 

steed 

Had  thrown  his  small  head  backward, 
and  his  breath 

Through  the  red  nostrils  burst  in  labored 
sighs ; 

I  bent  above  his  outstretched  neck,  I 
threw 

My  quivering  arms  about  him,  murmur- 
ing low, 

'Good  horse!  brave  heart!  a  little  longer 
bear 

The  strain,  the  travail ;  and  thenceforth 
for  thee 

Free  pastures  all  thy  days,  till  death 
shall  come! 

Ah,  many  and  many  a  time,  my  noble 
bay, 

Her  lily  hand  hath  wandered  through 
thy  mane. 

Patted  thy  rainbow  neck,  and  brought 
thee  ears 

Of  daintiest  corn  from  out  the  farm- 
house loft, — 

Help,  help,  to  save  her  now ! ' 

"  I'll  vow  the  brute 
Heard  me  and  comprehended  what  he 

heard! 
He  shook  his  proud  crest  madly,  and  his 

eye 
Turned  for  a  moment  sideways,  flashed 

in  mine 
A  lightning  gleam,  whose  fiery  language1 

said, 
•  I   know  my  lineage,  will  not  shame  my 

sire. 
My  sire,  who  rushed  triumphant  'twixt 

the  flags, 
And  frenzied  thousands,  when  on  Epsom 

downs 
Arcturus    won    the    Derby! — -no,    nor 

shame 
My  granddam,  whose  clean  body,  half 

enwrought 
Of  air,  half  fire,  through  swirls  of  desert 

sand 
Bore  Shirk  Abdallah  headlong  on    his 

prey!" 


''At  last  came  forest  shadows,  and  the 

road 
Winding  through  bush  and  bracken,  and 

at  last 
The    hoarse   stream    rumbling   o'er   its 

quartz-sown  crags. 

"No,  no!  stanch  Widderin!  pause  not 
now  to  drink ; 

An  hour  hence,  and  thy  dainty  nose 
shall  dip 

In  richest  wine,  poured  jubilantly  fort li 

To  quench  thy  thirst,  my  beauty!  but 
press  on, 

Nor  heed  these  sparkling  waters.  God  I 
my  brain's 

On  fire  once  more!  an  instant  tells  me 
all : 

All!  —  life  or  death, — salvation  or  de- 
spair! — 

For  yonder,  o'er  the  wild  grass-matted 
slope 

The  house  stands,  or  it  stood  but  yester- 
day. 

"  A  Titan  cry  of  inarticulate  joy 

I  raised,  as  calm  and  peaceful  in  the  sun, 

Shone  the  fair  cottage,  and  the  garden- 
close, 

Wherein,  white-robed,  unconscious,  sat 
my  Love 

Lilting  a  low  song  to  the  birds  and  flow- 
ers. 

She  heard  the  hoof-strokes,  saw  me. 
started  up, 

And  with  her  blue  eyes  wider  than  their 
wont, 

And  rosy  lips  half  tremulous,  rushed  to 
meet 

And  greet  me  swiftly.  '  Up,  dear  Love ! ' 
I  cried, 

"  The  Convicts,  the  Bush-Bangers!  —  let 
us  fly!' 

Ah,  then  and  there  you  should  have  seen 
her,  friend. 

My  noble  beauteous  Helen !  not  a  tear, 

Nor  sol),  and  scarce  a  transient  pulse- 
quiver. 

As,  clasping  hand  in  hand,  her  fairy  foot 


WIDDERIN'S  RACE. 


161 


Lit  like  a  small  bird  on  my  horseman's 

boot, 
And  up  into  the  saddle,  lithe  and  light, 
Vaulting  she  perched,  her  bright  curls 

round  my  face! 

"We  crossed  the  river,  and,  dismount- 
ing, led 

O'er  the  steep  slope  of  blended  rock  and 
turf, 

The  wearied  horse,  and  there  behind  a 
Tor 

Of  castellated  bluestone,  paused  to 
sweep 


"With  young  keen  eyes  the  broad  plain 
stretched  afar, 

Serene  and  autumn-tinted  at  our  feet : 

'  Either,'  said  I,  '  these  devils  have  gone 
East, 

To  meet  with  bloodhound  Desborough 
in  his  rage 

Between  the  granite  passes  of  Luxorme, 

Or  else, — dear  Christ!  my  Helen,  low! 
stoop  low ! ' 

(These  words  were  hissed  in  horror,  for 
just  then, 

'Twixt  the  deep  hollows  of  the  river- 
vale, 


"No,  110  !   stanch  Widderin!   pause  not  now  to  drink." 


The  miscreants,  with  mixed  shouts  and 

curses,  poured 
Down  through  the  flinty  gorge  tumultu- 

ously, 
Seeming,    we    thought,    in   one    fierce 

throng  to  charge 
Our  hiding-place. )     I  seized  my  Widder- 
in's  head. 
Blindfolding  him,  for  with  a  single  neigh 
Our  fate  were  sealed  o'  th'  instant!    As 

they   rode, 
Those  wild,  foul-languaged  demons,  by 

our  lair, 
Scarce   twelve    yards    off,    my   troubled 

steed  shook  wide 
His   streaming  mane,  stamped   on  the 

earth,  and  pawed 


So  loudly  that  the  sweat  of  agony  rolled 
Down  my  cold  forehead ;  at  which  point 

I  felt 
My  arm  clutched,  and  a  voice  I  did  not 

know, 
Dropped  the    low  murmur  from  pale, 

shuddering  lips, 
'  O   God !    if    in   those  brutal  hands   I 

fall, 
Living,  look  not  into  your  mother's  face 

Or  any  woman's  more!' 

' '  What  time  had  passed 
Above  our  bowed  heads,  we  pent,  pin- 
ioned there 
By  awe  and  nameless  horror,  who  shall 
tell? 


162 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


Minutes,  perchance,  by  mortal  measure- 
ment, 

Eternity     by    heart-throbs!  —  when    at 

length 
"We  turned,  and  eyes  of  mutual  wonder 

raised, 
We  gazed  on  alien  faces,  haggard,  worn, 
And    strange   of    feature    as   the    faces 

horn 
In     fever     and      delirium!       Were     we 

saved  ? 
We  scarce  could    comprehend    it,   till, 

from  out 
The    neighboring    oak-wood,    rode    our 

friends  at  speed, 
With  clang  of  steel  and  eyebrows  bent  in 

wrath. 
But  warned   betimes,    the  wily  ruffians 

fled 
Far  up  the  forest-coverts,  and  beyond 
The   dazzling  snow-line  of   the   distant 

hills, 
Their  yells  of  fiendish  laughter  pealing 

faint. 
And  fainter  from  the  cloudland,  and  the 

mist 
That  closed  about  them  like  an  ash-gray 

shroud : 
Yet   were    these   wretches   marked    for 

imminent  death: 
The    next     keen    sunrise     pierced     the 

savage  gorge, 
To    which    we    tracked    them,    where, 

mere  beasts  at  bay, 
Grimly  they  fought,  and  brute  by  brute 

they  fed." 


OCTOBER. 

Afar  from  the  city,  its  cark  and  care,  — 
Thank  God!  I  am  cosily  seated  here, 

On  this  night  of  hale  October,  — 
While  the  flames  leap  high  on  the  roar- 
ing hearth. 
And  voices,  the  dearest  to  me  on  earth, 
King   out   in   the    music   of   household 
mirth, 
For  the  time  is  blithe  October ! 


There's   something,  —  but    what    I   can 

scarce  divine,  — 
Perchance  'tis  the  breath  like  a  potent 

wine. 
Of  the  cordial,  clear  October, 
Which  makes,  when  the  jovial  month 

conies  round, 
The    life-blood    bloom,    and   the   pulses 

bound. 
And  the  soul  spring  forth  like  a  monarch 

crown'd.  — 
God's  grace  on  the  brave  October! 

Come,    sweetheart!    open  your  choicest 

bin. 
For  who,  I  would  marvel,  could  deem  it 
sin. 
On  this  night  of  keen  October, 
To  quaff  one  health  to  his  ruddy  cheer, 
On  the  golden  edge  of  the  waning  year. 
To  his  eyes  so  bright,  and  his  cheeks  so 
(dear. 
Our  bluff  '•  King  Hal," —October  ? 

Away   witb    Rhenish   and   light   cham- 
pagne ! 

'Tis  not    in  these   we  must   pledge  the 
reign 
Of  the  stout  old  lord,  —October; 

But  in  mighty  stoups  of  the  "  mountain 
dew."  >; 

With    "beads"  like  tears   in  an  eye  of 
blue. 

But    tears    of    a    laughter,    sound    and 
true, 
As  thine  honest  heart,  October! 

He  brought  me  love  and  he  brought  me 

health. 
He  brought  me    all    but    the   curse   of 

wealth, 
This  kindly  and  free  October; 
And   forever  and   aye   I  will  bless  his 

name, 
While   his   winds  blow   fresh,   and   his 

sunsets  flame, 
Ami    the  whole   earth  burns   with   his 

crimson  fame, 
This  prince  of  the  months,  — October  ! 


WILL.  — HERE  AND    THERE. 


163 


WILL. 

Youk  face,  my   boy,  when  six  months 
old, 
We  propped  yon  laughing  in  a  chair, 
And  the  sun-artist  caught  the  gold 

Which  rippled  o'er  your  waving  hair! 
And  deftly  shadowed  forth  the  while 
That    blooming    cheek,     that    roguish 
smile, 
Those  dimples  seldom  still : 
The  tiny,  wondering,  wide-eyed  elf ! 
Xow,  can  you  recognize  yourself 

In  that  small  portrait,  Will  ? 

I  glance  at  it,  then  turn  to  you, 

Where    in    your  healthful    ease    you 
stand, 
ISTo  beauty,  —  but  a  youth  as  true, 

And  pure  as  any  in  the  land ! 
For  ^Nature,  through  fair  sylvan  ways, 
Hath  led  and  gladdened  all  your  days, 

Kept  free  from  sordid  ill ; 
Hath  filled  your  veins  with  blissful  fire, 
And  winged  your  instincts  to  aspire 
Sunward,  and  God  ward,  Will! 

Long-limbed  and  lusty,  with  a  stride 

That  leaves  me  many  a  pace  behind, 
You  roam  the  woodlands,  far  and  wide, 
You  quaff  great  draughts  of  country 
wind : 
While  tree    and   wildrlower,   lake    and 

stream, 
Deep  shadowy  nook,  and  sunshot  gleam, 

Cool  vale  and  far-off  hill, 
Each  plays  its  mute  mysterious  part, 
In  that  strange  growth  of  mind  and  heart 
1  joy  to  witness,  Will ! 

"Can    this    tall    youth,"  I    sometimes 
say, 
"  Be  mine  ?  my  son  t "  it  surely  seems 
Scarce  further  backward  than  a  day, 
.Since    watching    o'er    your    feverish 
dreams 
In  that  child-illness  of  the  brain, 
I  thought  (O   Christ,   with  what  keen 
pain!) 


Your  pulse  would  soon  be  still. 
That  all  your  boyish  sports  wrere  o'  er, 
And  I.  heart-broken,  nevermore 

Should  call,  or  clasp  you,  Will ! 

But  Heaven  was  kind,  death  passed  you 

by; 

And  now  upon  your  arm  I  lean, 
My  second  self,  of  clearer  eye, 

Of  firmer  nerve,  and  steadier  mien ; 
Through  you,    methinks,    my  long-lost 

youth 
Bevives,  from  whose  sweet  founts  of  truth 

And  joy,  I  drink  my  fill: 
I  feel  your  every  heart-throb,  know 
What  inmost  hopes  within  you  glow, 
One  soul's  between  us,  Will! 

Pray  Heaven  that  this  be  always  so ! 

That  ever  on  your  soul  and  mine 
Though  my  thin  locks   grow  white  as 
snow, 
The  self-same  radiant  trust  may  shine ; 
Pray  that  while  this,  my  life,  endures, 
It  aye  may  sympathize  with  yours 
In  thought,  aim,  action  still; 
That  you,  O  son  (till  conies  the  end), 
In  me  may  find  your  comrade,  friend, 
And  more  than  father,  Will ! 


HERE  AXD    THERE.* 

Heee  the  warm  sunshine  fills 
Like  wine  of  gods  the  deepening,  cup- 
shaped  dells, 
Embossed  with  marvellous  flowers;  the 

happy  rills 
Boam  through  the  autumnal  fields  whose 

rich  increase 
Of  gathered  grain  smiles  under  heavens 
of  peace ; 
While  many  a  bird-song  swells 
From  glades  of  neighboring  woodlands, 
cool  and  fair.  — 
Content  and  peace  are  here. 


*  Written  during  the   war  between  France 
and  t4ermany. 


164 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


There  the  wild  battle's  wratli 

Shakes  his  beard  of  hoary  gold. 

Thunders  from  castled  height  to  storied 

Like  a  tangled  torrent  rolled 

plain, 

Down  the  sky-rifts,  clear  and  cold ! 

Ploughs  with  red  lightning-bolts  its  terri- 

ble path, 

Hark!  his  trumpet  summons  rings, 

And  sows  the  abhorrent  seeds  of  blood 

Potent  as  a  warrior-king's; 

and  death, 

Till  the  forces  of  our  blood 

Blown    far    on    Desolation's    tameless 

Rise  to  lusty  hardihood, 

breath, 

And  our  summer's  languid  dreams 

While  for  autumnal  grain 

Melt,     like    foam-wreaths,     down     the 

Time  reaps  the  harvest  of  a  bleak  de- 

streams, 

spair,  — 

When  the  fierce  northeasters  roll. 

God's  curse  consumes  them  there. 

Raving  from  the  frozen,  pole. 

Here  jovial  children  play 

Nobler  hopes  and  keener  life. 

Beneath  the  latest  vine-leaves ;  innocent 

Quicken  in  his  breath  of  strife ; 

kings, 

Through  the  snow-storms  and  the  sleet 

And  blissful  queens,  —  on  them  the  ma- 

On he  stalks  with  armed  feet. 

tron  Day, 

While  the  sounding  clash  of  hail 

Like  a  sweet  mother  drops  her  kisses 

Clanging  on  his  icy  mail. 

light; 

Stirs  Avhate'er  of  generous  might 

The  very  clouds  some  secret  joy  makes 

Time  hath  left  us  in  his  flight, 

bright, 

And  our  yearning  pulses  thrill 

And  round  us  clings  and  clings, 

For  some  grand  achievement  still! 

With  Ariel  arms,  the  season's  influence 

rare, — 

Lord  of  ice-bound  sea  and  land. 

Heaven's  heart  beats  near  us  here. 

Let  me  grasp  thy  kingly  hand. 

And  from  thy  great  heart  and  bold, 

There  love  bemoans  its  lost, 

Hecla-warm,  though  all  is  cold 

Countless  as  seaside  sands;   all  joys  of 

Round  about  thee,  catch  the  fire 

life 

Of  my  lost  youth's  brave  desire ; 

Rest  locked  and  stirless  in  the  blood-red 

Let  me,  in  the  war  with  wrong, 

frost ; 

Like  thy  storms,  be  swift  and  strong, 

Ye  drums,  roll  out,  shrill  clarions,  peal 

Gloomy  griefs,  and  coward  cares 

your  parts ! 

Broods  of  'wildering,  dark  despairs, 

Ye   cannot  drown  the  wail   of  broken 

Making  all  life's  glory  dim, 

hearts, 

Let  me  rend  them,  limb  from  limb. 

Xor  still  that  spiritual  strife 

As  the  forest-boughs  are  rent 

Which   thrills   through  Victory's  voice 

When  thou  wak'st  the  firmament. 

its  death-notes  drear,  — 

And  with  savage  shriek  and  groan, 

Dear  Christ,  soothe,  save  them  there. 

All  the  wildwood's  overthrown! 

WELCOME   TO    WINTER. 

TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Now.  with  wild  and  windy  roar, 

Like  streamlets  to  a  silent  sea, 

Stalwart  Winter  comes  once  more,  — 

These  songs  with  varied  motion 

O'er  our  roof-tree  thunders  loud, 

Flow  from  bright  fancy's  uplands  free, 

And  from  edges  of  black  cloud 

To  Lethe's  clouded  ocean; 

SONNETS, 


165 


They  lapse  in  deepening  music  down 
The  slopes  of  flower-lit  meadows, 

Nor  dream,  poor  songs!  how  near  them 
frown 
Oblivion's  rayless  shadows! 

Yet  though  of  brief  and  dubious  life, 

All  wed  to  incompleteness,  — 
The  voices  of  these  lays  are  rife 

With  frail  and  fleeting  sweetness ; 
One  chord  to  make  more  full  the  strain, 

One  note  I  may  not  smother, 
Is  echoed  in  the  heart's  refrain 

Which  holds  thy  name,  my  mother! 

To  thee  my  earliest  verse  I  brought, 

All  wreathed  in  loves  and  roses, 
Some  glowing  boyish  fancy,  fraught 

With  tender  May-wind  closes ; 
Thou  did' st  not  taunt  my  fledgling  song, 

Xor  view  its  flight  with  scorning : 
"The  bird,"  thou  saidst,   ''grown  fleet 
and  strong, 

Might  yet  outsoar  the  morning!  " 

Ah  me !  between  that  hour  and  this, 

Eternities  seem  flowing; 
O'er  hapless  graves  of  youth  and  bliss 

Dark  cypress  boughs  are  growing; 
Our  Fate  hath  dimmed  with  base  alloy 

The  rich,  pure  gold  of  pleasure, 
And  changed  the  choral  chant  of  joy 

To  care's  heart-broken  measure! 

But  through  it  all,  —  the  blight,  the  pall, 

The  stress  of  thunderous  weather, 
That    God  who  keeps  wild   chance   in 
thrall 

Hath  linked  our  lots  together; 
So,  hand  in  hand,  we  sail  the  gloom, 

Faith's  mystic  plummet  casting 
To  sound  the  ways  which  end  in  bloom 

Of  Edens  everlasting! 

I    bless    thee,     Dear,     with    reverent 
thought ! 

Pale  face,  and  tresses  hoary, 
Whose  every  silvery  thread  hath  caught 

Some  hint  of  heavenly  glory ;  — 


To  thee,  with  trust  assured,  sublime, 
Death's  angel-call  that  waitest, 

To  thee,  as  once  my  earliest  rhyme, 
Lo !  now,  I  bring  —  my  latest ! 


SONNETS. 
ILLEGITIMATE. 

The  maiden  Spring  came  laughing  down 
the  dales, 

Her  fair  brows  arched,  and  on  her  rose- 
bud mouth, 

The  balm  and  beauty  of  the  lustrous 
South ; 

Through  soft  green  fields,  from  hills  to 
hapisy  vales, 

She  tripped,  her  small  feet  twinkling  in 
the  sun, 

Her  delicate  finger  raised  with  girlish 
mirth, 

Pointed  at  graybeard  Winter,  who,  in 
dearth, 

Toiled  toward  his  couch,  his  long  day 
labor  done; 

Ah  no,  not  done!  for  hark!  a  sudden 
wind, 

Death-laden,  sweeps  from  realms  of  arc- 
tic sky, 

And  blurred  with  storm,  the  morn  grows 
crazed  and  blind ; 

Then  Winter,  mocking,  backward  turns 
apace, 

Where  pallid  Spring  all  vainly  strives  to 

fly, 

And  with  brute  buffet  scars  her  shrink- 
ing face ! 

SONNET. 

I  cast  this  sorrow  from  me  like  a 
crown 

Of  bitter  nettles,  and  unwholesome 
weeds, 

Nursed  by  cold  night-dews,  from  malig- 
nant seeds, 

111  Fortune  sowed,  when  all  the  heaven 
did  frown; 

Its  loathsome  round  I  trample  deeply 
down 


166 


LEGENDS   AND   LYIIWS. 


In  mire  and  dust,  to  burn  my  brain  no 

more ; 
From  off  my  brow  I  wipe  tlie  trickling 

gore, 
Wbile  all  about  me,  like  keen  clarions 

blown. 
From  breezy  dells,  and  golden  heights 

afar, 
Their    stern    reveille    the    wild    March 

winds  sound ; 
They  wake  an  answering  passion  in  my   !   'Gainst   such   sweet    levelling    Custom 

soul,  cries  amain, 

Whence,  marshalled  as  brave  warriors.    ;    But  o'er  its  harshest  utterance  one  bland 

taking  ground  sigh, 

For  noblest  conflict,  freed  from  doubt  or   ,    Breathed  passion-wise,  doth  mount  vie- 

dole,  torious  still. 

Great  thoughts  uprising   front    Hope's       For   Love,  earth's  lord,  must  have  his 

morning  star!  lordly  will. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  OF   THE  LOVERS.* 
I. 

Love  scorns  degrees !  the  low  he  liftetL 

high, 
The  high  he  draweth  down  to  that  fail 

plain 
Whereon,  in  his  divine  equality, 
Two  loving  hearts  may  meet,  nor  meel 

in  vain ; 


VERNAL       PICTUBES       (WITHOUT       AND 
"WITHIN). 

Amid  fresh  roses  wandering,  and  the 
soft 

And  delicate  wealth  of  apple-blossoms 
spread 

In  tender  spirals  of  blent  white  and  red, 

Round  the  fair  spaces  of  our  blooming 
croft, 

This  morn  I  caught  the  gurgling  note, 
so  oft 

Heard  in  the  golden  spring-tides  that  are 
dead, — 

The  swallow's  note,  murmuring  of  win- 
ter fled, 

Dropped  silverly  from  passionless  calms 
aloft: 

"  O  heart!  "  I  said,  "  thy  vernal  depths 
unclose, 

That  mirror  Nature's;  warm  airs,  come 
and  go 

Of  whispering  ardors  o'er  thought's  bud- 
ded rose, 

And  half-hid  flowers  of  sweet  philoso- 
phy; 

While  now  upglancing,  now  borne  swift 
and  low, 

Song  like  the  swallow  darts  through  fan- 
cy's sky." 


But  ah!   this   sovereign  will  oft  works 

at  last 
The  deadliest  bane,  as  happed  erewhile 

to  her, 
EarPGodolf  s  daughter,  many  a  century 

past : 


*  The  most  important  feature  in  the  land- 
scape of  this  poem  the  old  Chronicler  persists 
in  designating  as  a  mountain  of  "steep"  and 
"  terrible  "  ascent ;  but  that  it  could  not  have 
been  a  mountain,  and,  despite  certain  obstacles 
which  made  it  dangerous  for  men  on  horse- 
back, it  might  not  even  have  been  a  very  "  ter- 
rible "  hill,  is  shown  by  the  fact,  that  among 
the  crowd  who  reached  the  summit  soon  after 
the  catastrophe,  were  "  old  men,*'  whom  the 
excitement  of  the  time  and  scene  would  hardly 
have  sufficed  to  bear  safely  up  were  the  Chron- 
icler's expressions  to  be  literally  accepted. 
To  any  man  loaded  as  Oswald  was,  the  ascent 
of  a  comparatively  moderate  height  would 
prove  a  fearful  trial;  but  in  his  case  the  atro- 
cious cruelty  of  the  experiment,  and  the  life 
and  death  issues  involved,  became  so  closely 
associated  in  the  spectators'  minds  with  the 
material  scene  of  the  tragedy,  that  the  latter 
was  not  unnaturally  beheld  through  the  mag- 
nifying medium  of  pity  and  terror.  Thus  the 
hill  was  elevated  into  a  mountain!  The  old 
Chronicler  celebrates  it  as  such.  We  follow 
the  old  Chronicler  — to  the  death! 


THE   MOUNTAIN   OF   THE   LOVERS. 


167 


She  loved  her  father's  low  born  forester, 
About  whose  manful  grace  did  breathe 

and  stir 
So  clear  a  radiance,  by  soul-virtues  cast, 
He  moved  untouched  of  social  blight  or 

ban  — 
Nature's  serene,  true-hearted  gentleman. 


Yet  she  alone  of  all  the  household  saw 

That  softy  soul  beneath  his  serf's  attire; 

But  of  the  ruthless  Earl  so  great  her 
awe, 

Close,  close  she  kept  her  spirit's  veiled 
desire, 

Nor  outward  shone  one  spark  of  hidden 
fire. 

Too  well  she  knew  to  what  stern  feudal 
law 

She  and  her  hapless  Love  perforce  must 
yield, 

If  once  this  tender  secret  were  re- 
vealed. 

IV. 

Yea!  even  by  Oswald's  self  her  covert 

flame 
Undreamed  of  burned ;  proud  stood  she, 

coldly  fair, 
When,  to  report  of  woodcraft  lore,  he 

came 
To  the  Earl's  hall,  and  she  was  lingering 

there. 
"  Cold  heart!  "  thought  he;  "  who  'midst 

her  liegemen,  dare 
Play  as  I  played  with  death  a  desperate 

game 
For  her  sweet  sake  ?  and  yet,  alas !  and 

yet, 

She  scorns  the  service  and  disowns  the 
debt." 


For  sooth  it  was  that  one  keen  winter's 

night, 
While     slowly     journeying     homeward 

through  a  wood 


Whose  every  deepest  copse  in  moonshine 
bright 

Glimmered  from  hoary  trunk  to  frost- 
tipped  bud, 

On  sire  and  child  there  burst  a  cry  of 
blood, 

Followed  by  hurrying  feet,  and  the  dread 
sight 

Of  scores  of  gray-skinned  brutes  —  a 
direful  pack 

Of  wolves  half-starved  that  yelled  along 
their  track. 


In  vain  his  frantic  team  Earl  Godolf 

smote, 
With  blended  prayer  and  curse;   nigh 

doom  were  they, 
Eiders  and  steeds,  for  now  each  ravening 

throat 
Yawned  like  a  foul  tomb.    On  the  bound- 
ing sleigh 
The  fierce  horde  gained,  when  from  the 

silvery-gray, 
Cold-branched   glades  outrang  a  bugle 

note, 
With   next   a    bowstring's     twang,   an 

arrowy  whir, 
As  shaft  on  shaft  the  keen-eyed  forester 


Launched  on  the  foe,  each  hurtling  shaft 

a  fate. 
Then     Oswald,    'twixt     pursuers     and 

pursued 
Leapt,  sword  in  hand,  his  eyes  of  fiery 

hate 
Fixed  on  the  baffled  horde,  whose  doubt- 
ful mood 
Changed   to   quick  fear,   they    scoured 

adown  the  wood, 
Their   long  gaunt  lines,  in    fiend-like, 

vanquished  state, 
Fading  with  flash  of  blood-red  orbs  from 

far, 
Till    the    last    vanished  like  a  baleful 

star! 


1(38 


LEGENDS   AND  LYRICS. 


Xow,  by  the  mass!  abrupt  and  brief,  I 

ween, 
The  rude  Earl's  thanks  for  rescued  limbs 

and  life; 
But   not   so   graceless   proved   the    fair 

Catrine, 
As  glancing  backward   to   the    field  of 

strife 
She  flashed  a  smile  with  cordial  meaning 

rife, 
Which  struck  our  sylvan  hero  (who  did 

lean. 
Pale,  on  his  bow,)  as  'twere  the  piercing 

gleam 
Of  some  strange,  sudden,  half  bewilder- 
ing dream. 


Alack !  the  dream  waxed  not,  but  seemed 

to  wane, 
As  if  a  cloudless  sun  but  late  arisen, 
Back  journeying,  passed  across  the  ethe- 
real plain, 
And  the  fresh  dawn  it  brought,  died  out 

in  heaven; 
For  from  that  eve  no  subtlest  signs  were 

given, 
As  erst  we   said,  that  passion's  blissful 

pain 
Touched  the  maid's  heart,  or  that  her 

days  were  caught 
In  those  fine  meshes  woven  by  love  for 

thought. 


x. 

In  Britain  dwelt  Earl  Godolf,  nigh  the 

bounds 
Of  the  Welsh  marches;  a  wild  rover  he 
In  his  hot  youth,  inured  to  strife  and 

wounds 
Through  many  a  foray  fierce  by  land  and 

sea; 
But.  after  years  of  bright  tranquillity  — 
Years  linked  to  love  through  pleasure's 

peacefid  bounds  — 


So  gently  lapsed,  the  unmailed  warrior's 

hand 
Forgot  almost  the  use  of  spear  or  brand. 

XI. 

A  bride  erewhile  won  by  his  dauntless 

blade 
In  a  great  sea  fight  —  where  his  arm  had 

slain 
Some  half  score  foemen —  wan  and  half 

afraid, 
Homeward  he  brought,  whose  every  deli- 
cate vein 
Pulsed  the  rich  blood  and  tropic  warmth 

of  Spain ; 
But  when  pure  wifehood  crowned  the 

noble  maid. 
Heart-fruits  for  him  his  beauteous  lady 

bore, 
Of    whose   strange   sweets  he  had  not 

dreamed  before. 

XII. 

She  strove  his   nature's   ruggedness  to 

smooth. 
And   in   bjs   bosom   dropped  a  fruitful 

germ 
Of  those  mild  virtues  given  our  lives  to 

soothe, 
And  change  their  gusty  solitude  to  warm 
Beneficent  calm,  —  divinest  after  storm. 
Within  him  flowered  a  pallid  grace  of 

ruth, 
Nor  oft,  as  once,  o'er  bleeding  breasts  he 

trod 
Straight  to  his  purpose,  blind  to  law  and 

God. 

XIII. 

And  in  fair  fulness  of  the  ripened  time, 
Still  gentler  grew  his  dark,  war-furrowed 

mien ; 
He  quaffed  the  sunshine  of  a  fairy  clime, 
Love  charmed,  hope  gladdened,  when, 

to  crown  the  scene 
Of  transient  bliss,  there  smiled  a  new 

Catrine  — 


"Every  deepest  copse  in  moonshine  bright, 
Glimmered  from  hoary  trunk  to  frost-tipped  bud.  . 
Scores  of  gray-skinned  brutes  — a  direful  pack 
Of  wolves  half-starved  that  yelled  along  their  track. 


TEE   MOUNTAIN   OF   TEE  LOVERS. 


169 


The  loveliest  babe  e'er  lulled  by  mother's 

rhyme  — 
Whose  tiny  ringers  o'er  her  heart-strings 

played, 
Making    ineffable    music    where    they 

strayed. 


Woe  worth  the  end !  for  though  the  in- 
fant thrived 

Slowly  the  hapless  mother  pined  away; 

Love  to  the  last  in  pleading  eyes  sur- 
vived — 

Those  fond,  fond  eyes  doomed  to  the 
churchyard  clay, 

Coffined,  and  shut  from  all  blithe  sights 
of  day ; 

But  Christ!  in  thee  her  stainless  spirit 
lived, 

Whose  memory  —  a  white  star  —  should 
evermore 

O'er  her  lord's  paths  have  beamed  to 
keep  them  pure. 


Xathless,  some  souls  there  are  by  cruel 
loss 

Stung,  as  with  scourge  of  scorpions,  to 
despair; 

These  will  not  seek  the  Christ,  nor  clasp 
His  cross, 

Bat,  groping  vaguely  through  sulphure- 
ous air, 

Strike  hands  with  Satan,  in  the  murky 
glare 

Of  furious  hell,  whose  billows  rage  and 
toss 

About  their  tortured  being,  urged  to 
curse 

That  mystic  will  which  rules  the  uni- 
verse. 


Yea,  such  the  Earl's;    no  cooling  clew 

did  fall 
To  heal  his  wound;  'gainst  heaven  and 

earth  he  turned. 
Girt  to  his   sense  with  one  vast  funeral 

pall ; 


And  the  sore  heart  within  him  writhed 
and  burned 

With  baffled  hope,  and  pain  that  madly 
yearned, 

Vainly  and  madly,  for  dear  love's  recall. 

No  light  o'ershone  grief's  ocean  drear 
and  black, 

The  while  old  passions  thronged  tumul- 
tuous back. 

XVII. 

So,  his  last  state  was  worse  than  e'en  his 
first ; 

Murder  and  rapine,  pitiless  greed,  and 
ire 

Raged  wheresoe'er  his  raven  banner 
burst, 

'Mid  shrieks  and  wails,  and  hollow  roar 
of  fire, 

Which  lapped  the  household  porch  and 
crackling  byre; 

He  seemed  demoniac  in  his  aims  ac- 
curst, 

Wrath  in  his  soul,  and  on  his  brow  the 
sign 

Of  hell  —  a  human  scourge  by  power  di- 
vine 

XVIII. 

For    some    mysterious     end    permitted 

still  — 
As  many  an  evil  thing  our  God  allows 
To  range  the  world,  and  work  its  dread- 
ful will, 
Whether  in  form  of  chiefs,  with  laurelled 

brows, 
Or  spies  and  traitors  in  the  good  man's 

house ; 
Or,  it  may  be,  some  slow,  infectious  ill, 
Untraced,  and  rising  like  a  mist  defiled 
With  poisonous  odors  on  a  lonely  wild, 


Albeit  no  marsh  is  near,  or  steamy  fen. 
More  monstrous  year  by  year  Earl  Go- 

dolf's  deeds 
Flared  m  hell's  livery  on  the  eyes  of  men; 
All   growths     of     transient      goodness 

checked  by  "weeds, 


170 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Sin-bred;   and,  ah!    one  angel's  bosom 

bleeds 
To  know  she   may  not  meet  her  love 

again ; 
And    even  the  vales   immortal   seemed 

less  sweet, 
Because  too  pure  for  his  crime-cumbered 

feet. 


But,  weal  or  woe,  the  world  rolls 
blindly  on, 

"While  nature's  charm,  in  child,  and 
bird,  and  flower. 

Works  its  rare  marvels  'neath  the  noon- 
day sun. 

And  the  still  stars  in  midnight's  slum- 
berous hour. 

And  so  a  human  bud,  through  beam 
and  shower, 

Glad  play,  and  easeful  sleep  —  the 
orphaned  one. 

The  beauteous  babe  —  a  sour  old  bel- 
dame's  care, 

Upflowered  at  length  a  matchless  maid, 
and  fair. 


Most  fair  to  all  but  him  to  whom  she  owed 

Her  life  and  place  in  this  bewildering 
world ; 

For  he,  a  changed  man  since  that  hour 
which  showed 

His  wife'c  worn  form  in  earthly  cere- 
ments furled, 

Cold  scorn  had  launched,  or  captious 
passion  hurled 

At  this  sole  offspring  of  his  lone  abode. 

Till  grown,  alas!  too  early  grave  and 
wise. 

She  viewed  her  sire,  in  turn,  with  love- 
less eyes. 

XXII. 

Still  in  benignant  arms  did  nature  fold 
Her  favored   child,    and    on    her  richly 

showered 
All  gifts  of  beauty;   with  long   hair  of 

gold 


And  lucid,  languid  eyes  the  maid  she 
dowered, 

And  her  enticing  loveliness  empowered 

With  charms  to  melt  the  wintriest  tem- 
per's cold 

Charms  wrought  of  sunrise  warmth, 
and  twilight  balm, 

Passion's  deep  glow,  and  pity's  saint- 
like calm. 

XXIII. 

Tall,  lithe,  and  yielding  as  a  young  bay 
tree 

Her  perfect  form;  but  'neath  its  lissom 
grace 

There  lurked  a  latent  strength  keen 
eyes  could  see, 

Drawn  from  her  father's  undegenerate 
race ; 

The  dazzling  fairness  of  her  Saxon  face, 

Contrasted  with  the  dark  eyes'  witchery, 

Shone  with  such  light  as  northern  noon- 
days wake 

Through  the  clear  shadov  s  of  a  moun- 
tain lake. 

XXIV. 

Her  full   blown  flower  of   beauty  lured 

ere  long 
Unnumbered   suitors  round   her;   these 

declare 
Boldest    report    hath    done    the    virgin 

wrong. 
And  past  all  power  of  words  they  deem 

her  fair; 
The  kingdom's  princeliest  youth  besiege 

her  ear 
And  heart  with  ardent  vows  and  amor- 
ous song; 
Love,  rank  and   wealth    their  splendid 

beams  combine, 
She  the  rare  orb  about  whose  path  they 

shine. 

XXV. 

Still  would  she  wed  with  none  till  rudely 

pressed 
To  the  last   boundary  of  her  patience 

sweet ; 


THE   MOUNTAIN  'OF   THE   LOVERS. 


171 


No  more  she  struggled  in  a  yearning 
breast 

To  hide  her  passion,  howsoe'er  unmeet 

For  one  high  placed  as  she ;  her  fervent 
feet 

Oft  bore  her  now  where  woodland  flow- 
ers caressed 

The  grand  old  oaks,  beneath  whose  shel- 
tering boughs 

The  lovers  mused,  or,  whispering, 
breathed  their  vows. 


But  ere  to  such  sweet  pass  their  fates 

had  led, 
Or  ere  her  thought  unbosomed  utterly, 
To  the  rapt  youth,  in  tremulous  tones, 

she  said, 
"I  love  thee,''  through  full  many  a  fine 

degree 
Of  feeling,  touched  by  sad  uncertainty, 
That  truth   they  neared,  which,  like  a 

bird  o'erhead, 
Still  faltering  flew,   till  borne   through 

shade  and  sun. 
It  nestled  warm  in  two  hearts  made  as 

one! 


The  truth,  the  fond  conviction  that  all 
earth 

Was  less  than  naught  —  a  mote,  a  van- 
ishing gleam. 

Matched  with  the  glow  of  that  transcen- 
dent birth 

Of  love  which  wrapped  them  in  his  hap- 
piest dream ; 

Entranced  thus,  shut  in  by  beam  on  beam 

Of  glory,  is  it  strange  but  trivial  worth 

Their  dazzled  minds  in  transient  doubts 
should  see 

Which  some  times  crossed  their  keen  fe- 
licity ? 

XXVIII. 

Their  love  awhile,  like  some  smooth  rivu- 
let borne 

Through  drooping  umbrage  of  a  lonely 
dell, 


By  clouds  unvisited,  by  storms  untorn. 
Passed,  rippling  music ;  like  a  magic  bell 
Out  rung  by  spirit  hands  invisible, 
Each   tender   hour  of  meeting,  eve   or 

morn, 
Above  them,  stole  in  rhythmic  sweet- 
ness, blent 
With  rare  fruition  of  supreme  content. 

xxrx. 

But  in  the  sunset  tide  of  one  calm  day, 
When,  all  unconscious  at  the  place  of 

tryst, 
Beyond  their  wont  they  lingered;  with 

dismay 
They  saw,  begirt  by  gold  and  amethyst, 
Of  that  rich  time,  gigantic  in  the  midst 
Of  shimmering  splendor,  which  did  flash 

and  play 
About  his  form,  and  o'er  his  visage  dire, 
The  wrathful  Earl,  midmost  the  sunset 

fire. 


Xo  word  he   uttered,   but  his  falchion 

drew, 
Red   with   the   slain  boar's   blood,  and 

pointed  grim 
Where  'gainst  the  eastern  heavens'  slow- 
deepening  blue 
Uprose  his  castle  turrets,  tall  and  dim. 
The  maid's   eyes  close;   she  feels  each 

nerveless  limb 
Sink  nigh  to  swooning;  but,  heart-brave 

and  true, 
Clings  to  her  Love,  while  from  pale  lips 

a  sigh 
Doth  faintly  fall,  which  means  "  with 

him  I  die!" 

XXXI. 

Gravely  advancing,  the  Earl's  stalwart 
hand 

Rests  on  her  shuddering  shoulder:  one 
quick  glance, 

Haughty  and  high,  rife  with  severe  com- 
mand. 

On  the  'mazed  woodsman  doth  he  dart 
askance, 


172 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


Who  doubtful  bides,  as  one  half  roused    i   Came,  grandly  robed,  our  Lord's  high 


from  trance, 


seneschal : 


Striving  to  know  on  what  new  ground       To   all   the  lieges,  with   shrill  trumpet 


his  stand 


call, 


Thenceforth  shall  be ;  or  if  life's  priceless   i   In  name  of  his  serene  puissant  grace 


all, 
Put  to  the  test  just  then,  must  rise  or 
fall. 

XXXII. 

Fate  wrought  the  issue!  for  as  Oswald 

waits 
Biding  his  time  to  smite,  or  else  retreat, 


Godolf,  the  Earl;  to  all  folk,  bond  or 
free, 

With  strident  voice  he  read  this  foul  de- 
cree : 

xxxv. 

"  Whereas  our  virgin  daughter,  hight 
Catrine, 


With   the    maid's    hand  his   own  Earl    ;    False  to  her    noble    race    and    lineage 


Godolf  mates, 


proud, 


And  from  the  wood  they  pass  with  foot-   !    Hath  owned  her  love  for  one  of  birth  as 

steps  fleet;  mean 

One  tearful,  backward  look   vouchsafed       As   any  hind's  who  creeps   among  the 


his  sweet. 


crowd 


Just   as   the   castle    gates  —  those    iron       Of  common  serfs,  with  cowering  shoul- 

gates,  ders  bowed  — 

Heavy  and  stern,   like   Death's  —  were       Oswald   byname  —  the  whom  ourselves 

closed  between  have  seen, 

His  burning  vision  and  the  lost  Catrine.       When    least    he    deemed  us  nigh,   his 

traitorous  part 
Press  with  hot  wooing  on  the  maiden's 
To   heaven   he    raises   wild    despairing  heart: 

eyes, 
But  heaven  responds  not;  then  to  earth 

returns  "  Let  all  men  know  hereby  our  will  it  is, 

His  baffled  gaze  from  ranging  the  cold   i    To-morrow  morn  their  trial  morn  must 


skies, 


be; 


And  earth  but  seems  a  place  for  burial   i   Either  the  serf  shall  win,  and  call  her 


urns; 


his, 


In    sooth,  the   whole    creation    mutely   i    Or  both  shall  taste  such  bitter  misery 


spurns 
His  prayer  for  aid ;  alas !  what  kind  re- 
plies 


As  even  in  dreams  the  boldest  soul  would 

flee; 
If  lips  unlicensed  thus  will  meet  and  kiss. 


Can  woeful  man  from  fair,  dumb  Xature   |   Reason  it  seems  that  such  unhallowed 


draw 


flame 


Locked  in  the  grasp  of  adamantine  Law  ?   i    Of  love  should  end  in  agony  and  shame. 


Three  morns  thereafter,  in  the  market   !    "  Therefore,  the  morrow  morn  shall  view 


place 


their  doom 


Of  the  small  town,  from  Godolf  s  castle   i   Accomplished;  'mid  the  ferns  of  Bolton 


wall 


Down, 


Distant,   it  might  be,  some  twelve  fur-      Where  Bolton  Height   doth   catch   the 


longs'  space, 


purpling  bloom 


THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  THE  LOVERS. 


173 


Of  early  sunrise  on  his  treeless  crown, 

Which,  stationed  near  him  at  the  Earl's 

We  say  to  all  —  knight,  burgher,  squire 

desire, 

and  clown  — 

His  every  move  o'erlooked,  did  Oswald 

Just  as  the  castle's  morning  bell  shall 

stand, 

boom 

Striving  his  roused  anger  to  command, 

O'er  the  far  hills,   and  brown  moor's 

And  lift  his  clouded  aspirations  higher 

blossoming, 

Than  thoughts    revengeful.      Hark!    a 

Come,  and  behold  a  yet  undreamed-of 

deepening  hum 

thing. 

On  the  crowd's  verge  —  the  trial  hour 

XXXVIII. 

has  come ! 

''For  then  and  there  must  Oswald  bear 

XLI. 

aloft, 

Divided,    then,    betwixt    his    ire    and 

By  his  sole  strength,  unaided  and  alone, 

scorn, 

The  blameful  maid,  whose  nature,  grown 

Outspake  the  Earl,  in  tones  of  savage 

too  soft, 

glee: 

Durst  thus  betray  our  bonor  and   her 

"Woodsman!  essay  thy  task,  for  lo !  the 

own; 

morn 

Yet,  if  he  gain  the  height,  untamed,  un- 

Grows  old,  and  I  this  wretched  mum- 

thrown, 

mery 

All  hands  applaud  him,  and  all  plumes 

Would  fain  see  ended." 

be  doffed ; 

—  With  mien  gravely  free, 

While  for  ourselves,  we  vow  they  both 

Clad  in  light  garb,  o'erwrought  by  hound 

shall  fare 

and  horn, 

Unharmed  beyond  our  realm  —  we  reck 

Oswald  stood  forth,  nor  quelled  by  frail 

not  where." 

alarms, 

XXXIX. 

About  the  maiden  clasped  his  reverent 
arms ; 

So,  as  decreed,  the  next  morn,  calm  and 

clear, 

xi,n. 

Witnessed,  in  many  a  diverse  mode  con- 

And she,  like  some  pure  flower  by  May 

veyed, 

tide  rain 

A  mixed  and  mighty  concourse  gathering 

Gracefully  laden,  turns  her  eyes  apart 

near 
The   appointed  height,  some   in  rough 

From  the  great  throng,  and,  pierced  by 
modest  pain. 

frieze  arrayed, 
And  some  in  gold;    there  blushed  the 

Veiled  her  sweet  face  upon  her  lover's 
heart ; 

downcast  maid, 
Urged  to  this  cruel  test,  a  passionate 

Whereat  the  youth  is  seen  to  thrill  and 

start, 

tear 
Misting  her  view,  as  surged  the  living 

While  o'er  his  own  face,  calm  and  pale 
but  now, 

sea. 
Behind  her,  his  arms  folded  haughtily, 

Bush  the  deep  crimson  waves  from  chin 
to  brow ; 

XL. 

XLIII. 

His  comely  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes 

Then  do  they  ebb  away,  and  leave  him 

on  fire 

white 

With  hot  contempt,  fixed  on  an  armed 

As  the  vexed  foam  on  ocean's  stormy 

band 

swell, 

174 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Yet   cool   and   constant   in   his    manful 

might 
As  some  stanch  rock  'gainst  which  the 

tides  rebel 
In   useless    rage,   with  hollow,   billowy 

knell; 
Meanwhile   advancing  with   sure   steps 

and  light, 
He  moves  in  measured  wise  to  dare  his 

fate 
Beneath  those  looks  of  blended  ruth  and 

hate. 

XLIV. 

Stirred  by  his  generous  bravery,  and  the 

sight 
Of  such  young  lives  —  their  love,  hope, 

joyance  set 
On   the  hard   mastery   of    yon  terrible 

height. 
Whose  rugged  slopes  and  sheer  descent 

are  wet 
And  slippery  with  the  dews  of  dawning 

yet,  — 

Through  the  dense  rout,  which  swayed 

now  left,  now  right. 
Low.  inarticulate  murmurs  faintly  ran, 
And   one  keen,    quivering  shock  from 

man  to  man. 

XLV. 

The  watchful  matrons  sob,  the  virgins 

weep 
Full   tears,   but   all   unheeded,   as  with 

slow, 
Sure  footfalls  still  he  mounts  the  hostile 

steep 
On  to  a  point  where  two  great  columns 

show 
Their  rounded  heads,  crowned   by  the 

morning  glow. 
His  task  half  done,  a  sigh,  long,  grateful, 

deep, 
Breaks  from  his  heaving  heart ;   secure 

he  stands, 
A  sunbeam  glimmering  on   his  clasped 

hands, 


And  the  glad  lustre  of  his  wind-swept 
locks 

More  radiant  made  thereby;  his  tall 
form  towers 

'Gainst  the  dark  background,  piled 
with  rocks  on  rocks 

Precipitous,  whose  grim,  gaunt  visage 
lowers, 

As  if  in  league  they  were  —  like  Titan 
powers 

Victorious  long  o'er  storms  and  earth- 
quake shocks  — 

To  cast  mute  scorn  on  him  whose  doubt- 
ful path 

Leads  near  the  threatening  shadows  of 
their  wrath. 

XLV1I. 

From  the  charmed  crowd  then  rose  an 

easeful  breath. 
Lightening   the   dense   air;   but,  'midst 

doubt  and  bale, 
Eaves  the  wild  Earl,  reckless  of  life  or 

death, 
If  so  his  tyrannous  purpose  could   pre- 
vail; 
For,  almost  mad,  he  smites  his  gloves  of 

mail, 
Goading   with  frenzied   heel  the   steed 

beneath 
His  barbarous   rule;   in   reason's   fierce 

eclipse, 
A  blood-red  foam  burns  on  his  writhing 

lips. 


Meanwhile,     brief     space    for    needful 

respite  given, 
With    quickened     pace,     onward     and 

upward  still, 
And    fanned    by    freshening    gales,   as 

nearer  heaven 
He  climbs  o'er  granite  passways  of  the 

hill, 
Oswald  ascends,  untamed  of  strength  or 

will, 


"The  kingdom's  princeliest  youth  besiege  her  ear.' 


THE    MOUNTAIN   OF   THE   LOVERS. 


175 


Striving,   as  ne'er   before    had    mortal 

Of  sense,   or  power;    and   so,  with  an- 

striven, 

guished  sighs, 

Boldly  to  win,  and  proudly  wear  as  his. 

Turned  on  his  love  —  the  goai  in  easy 

The  prize  he  bore  of  that  bright,  breath- 

reach — 

ing  bliss. 

His  yearning  woe  too   deep  for  mortal 

speech. 

XLIX. 

Two  thirds,   two  thirds  and  more,   of 

LII. 

that  last  half 

Whereon    the   lady's    arms   are   wildly 

Of  his  fell  journey  had  he  stoutly  won ; 

raised, 

And  now  he  pauses  the  cool  breeze  to 

Perchance   in    prayer,    perchance   with 

quaff, 

pitying  aim 

And  feel  the  royal  heartening  of  the  sun 

His  strain  to  ease,  when  lo!  (dear  Christ 

Nerving  his  soul  for  what  must  yet  be 

be  praised!) 

done. 

It  seemed  new  strength,  fresh  courage 

When  with  a  gentle,  quivering,  flutelike 

o'er  him  came, 

laugh, 

And  through  his  spirit  rushed  a  glorious 

Holding  a  sob,   the  maiden    rose    and 

flame, 

kissed 

At  which  the   crowd    stood    moveless. 

Her  hero's  lips,  sought  through  a  tremu- 

dumb, amazed, 

lous  mist 

For,   like   a  god,   with  swift,   resistless 

tread, 

L. 

He  strides  to  clasp  the  near  goal  o'er  his 

Of  love  and   pride!      The    on-lookers, 

head. 

ranged  afar, 

Saw,  and  more  boldly  blessed  them ;  all 

LIII. 

are  moved 

A  savage  cliff  of  beetling  brow  it  was, 

To  trust  that  theirs  may  prove  the  for- 

Midmost the   summit   of  the   lowering 

tunate  star 

height, 

Fate   brightly   kindles  for   young  lives 

Piooted   amongst  low  shrubs  and   sun- 

beloved : 

dried  grass, 

' '  His  truth  and  valor  hath   he  nobly 

And  reared  in  blackness,  like  a  cloud  of 

proved ; 

night, 

How   brave,   how   constant  both   these 

On  whose  dull  breast  no  beacon  star  is 

lovers  are ; 

bright. 

Sooth!    the   sweet  heavens    seem   with 

Thitherward,   from  cold  terrors  of  the 

them."     Thus,  full  voiced, 

pass 

Yet  with  some  lingering  doubts,  the  folk 

Well    nigh  of    death,  the  hero  speeds 

rejoiced. 

amain, 

Nor  seems  his  matchless  labor  wrought 

LI. 

in  vain. 

Alas !  for  false  forecasting,  and  surmise ! 

Though  small  the  space  betwixt  him  and 

LIV. 

his  goal, 

Yea;  for  a  single  rood's  length  oversped 

Oswald  doth    stagger    now  in  feeblest 

And   victory   crowns   him!     God!    how 

wise, 

still  the  crowd, 

And  like  some  drunken  carl,  with  heave 

Once  rife  with  voices!  silent  as  the  dead 

and  roll, 

Lodged  in  their  earthly  crypt  and  moul- 

Blindly he  staggers  in  his  lost  control 

dering  shroud  ; 

17(3 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


But  suddenly  a  great  cry  mounted  loud 

Headed  the  rout,  whose  feverish  fingers 

And   shrill   above   them,  as   in   rutht'ul 

crept 

dread, 

Oft  to   his  sword  hilt  ;  on  the  topmost 

They  saw   the  lovers,   linked   in    close 

height. 

embrace, 

Pausing  with  veiled  eyes,  his   gaze  he 

Fall  headlong  down  by  that  wild  trysting 

kept 

place. 

Fixed  on  the  prostrate  pair,  o'er  whom 

the  light 

LV. 

Of  broadening  sunrise  now  was  mixed 

Then  comes  a  quick  revulsion,  when,  the 

with  shade, 

pain 
Of  fear  and  choking  sympathy  gone  by, 

And  still   the   knight's  hand  wandered 

round  his  blade. 

Hope  reappears  —  aye,  joy  and  triumph 

reign  — 

LVIII. 

For  though  supine  on  yonder  height  they 

Impatient,  spleenful,  struggling  with  the 

lie, 

tide 

Still,   brow  to  brow,   turned   from    the 

Of  common  folk,  who  seemed  to  heed 

deepening  sky, 

no  more 

'Tis  but   the   faintness   of  the    mighty 

His     sullen     passion     and     revengeful 

strain  — 

pride, 

Or  so  they  dream  —  on  overworked  nerve 

Than   if  just  then   he  were  the   veriest 

and  will, 

boor,  — 

Which  leaves  them  moveless  on  the  con- 

The  Earl    at   length  with    bent    brows 

quered  hill. 

strode  before 

The  mongrel    horde,  and  unto  Oswald 

LVI. 

cried : 

Spurring  his  courser,  in  vexed  doubt  and 

"Rise,  traitor,  rise!  by  some  foul,  jug- 

haste, 

gling  sleight, 

The   Earl    charged    on    the    dangerous 

Through    the   fiend's   help,    thou    hast 

height,  as  though 

attained  the  height : 

Firm-trenched,  defiant,    'mid   the  rock- 

strewn  waste 

LIX. 

Glittered  the  spear-points  of  his  mortal 

Part  them,  I  say !  "     To  whom  in  meas- 

foe; 

ured  tone, 

The  horse's   hoof    struck   lire,    hurling 

Measured  and  strange,  the  young  knight 

below 

answering  said : 

Huge  stones  and  turf  his  goaded  limbs 

"Earl,    well   I   know   thou  wear'st  for 

displaced, 

heart  a  stone. 

Till  checked  midway,  his  reckless  rider 

Yet  dar'st  thou  part  these  twain  whom 

found 

death  has  wed, 

He  needs  must  climb  afoot  the  treacher- 

jSTo longer  twain,  but  one  '?    Look!  over- 

ous ground 

head 

The  burning  sun  mounts  to  his  noonday 

lvii. 

throne ; 

And   next  the  throng  had  caught,  and 

But  o'er  the   sun,   as   o'er  this  fateful 

past  him  swept, 

sod, 

Clothed   as  he  was  in  armor;  a  young 

Rules    a  great  King,  the   King  whose 

knight 

name  is  God ! 

THE   MOUNTAIN  OF  THE  LOVERS. 


177 


"  Deem' st  thou  for  this  day's  work  His 

wrath  shall  rest  ?  " 
Whereon,  low  murmuring  like  a  hive  of 

bees, 
With  stifled  groans  and  tears,  the  people 

pressed 
Round  the  fair  corpses  —  women  on  their 

knees 
Embraced  them  —  and    old    men  —  but 

dusky  lees 
Of  feeling  left  —  did  touch  them,  and 

caressed 
The  maid's  soft  hair,  the  woodsman's 

noble  face, 
Praying,  under  breath,  that  Christ  would 

grant  them  grace. 


That  mournful  day  had  waned;  by  sun- 
set rose 

A  wailing  wind  from  out  the  dim  north- 
east; ., 

Which,  as  the  shadows  waxed  at  twi- 
light's close 

O'er  moat  and  wood,  to  a  shrill  storm 
increased ; 

But  in  his  castle  hall,  with  song  and 
feast, 

Varied  full  oft  by  ribald  gibes  and  blows 

Twixt  ruffian  guests  in  rage  or  maudlin 
play, 

The  wild  night  raved  its  awful  hours 
away. 

LXII. 

With  not  a  pang  at  thought  of  her  whose 
form 

In  pallid  beauty  lay  unwatched  and 
dead, 

In  a  far  turret  chamber,  where  the  storm, 

Thundering  each  moment  louder  over- 
head, 

Entered  and  shook  the  close-draped,  som- 
bre bed, 

The  barbarous  sire  with  wine  and  was- 
sail warm, 


Lifting   his  cup  'mid   brutal    jest   and 

jeer, 
Banned  his  pale  daughter,  slumbering  on 

her  bier. 

LXIII. 

Just  as  those  impious  words  had  taken 

flight, 
In    the    red    dusk   beyond    the   torch's 

glare, 
Stole  a  vague  shape  that  'scaped  the  rev- 
ellers' sight, 
Slowly  toward  Earl  Godolf,  unaware 
Even  as  the  rest,  what  fateful  foe  drew 

near. 
Muffled  the  shape  war,  masked  and  black 

as  night, 
And    now   for  one  dread  instant  with 

raised  sword 
Stood  hovering  o'er  the  heedless  banquet 

board. 

LXIV. 

And  next  with  flashing  motion  fierce  and 

fast, 
Vengeance  descended  on  that  glittering 

blade ; 
The  amazed  spectators    started,  dumb, 

aghast, 
While  at  their  feet  the  caitiff  lord  was 

laid, 
His  heart's  blood  trickling  o'er  the  pur- 
ple braid 
(For   through  his   heart   the   avenger's 

brand  had  passed), 
And  silver  broidery  of  his  gorgeous  vest, 
Drawn  drop  by  drop  from  out  his  smitten 

breast. 

LXV. 

The  muffled  shape  which  as  a  cloud  did 

rise 
On  the  wild  orgie,  as  a  cloud  departs; 
Wan  hands  are  swept  across  bewildered 

eyes, 
And  awe  stilled  now  the  throbbing  at 

their  hearts, 
When  suddenly  one  death-pale  reveller 

starts 


178 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Up  from  the  board  and  in  shrill  accent       Until  so  sweet  the  tender  wooing  breeze. 


"  Curst  is  this  roof -tree,  curst  this  meat 

and  wine. 
Fly,  comrades;    fly  with  me  the  wrath 

Divine! " 

LXVI. 

In  haste,  in  horror,  and  great  tumult, 
fled 

The  affrighted  guests;  then,  on  the  va- 
cant room 

No  maddening  voice  thenceforth  dis- 
quieted, 

Fell  the  stern  presence  of  a  ghastly 
gloom. 

A  place  "twas  deemed  of  hopeless,  bale- 
ful doom; 

Barred  from  all  mortal  view  in  darkness 
dread. 

Only  the  spectral  forms  of  woe  and  sin 

Thro'  the  long  years  cold  harborage 
found  therein. 


THE    VENGEANCE  OF    THE   GODDESS 
DIANA* 

What  time  the  Norman  ruled  in  Sicily 
At  that  mild  season  when  the  vernal  sea, 
O'erflitted  by  the  zephyr's  frolic  wing, 
Dances   and    dimples    in    the   smile   of 

spring 
A  goodly  ship  set  sail  upon  her  way 
From  Ceos  unto  Smyrna;    through  the 

play 


So  fraught  the  hours  with  balms  of  slum- 
brous ease, 

That  those  who  manned  her,  in  the  ge- 
nial air 

And  dalliance  of  the  time,  forgot  the 
care 

Due  to  her  courses ;  in  the  bland  sun- 
shine 

They  lay  enchanted,  dreaming  dreams 
divine. 

While  idly  drifting  on  the  halcyon 
water, 

The  bark  obeyed  whatever  currents 
caught  her. 

Borne  onward  thus  for  many  a  cloudless 

day, 
They  reach  at  length  a  wide  and  wooded 

bay, 
The    haunt    of    birds    whose    purpling 

Mings  in  flight 
Make  even  the  blushful   morning  seem 

more  bright, 
Hushed     as    with    darting    rainbows; 

through  the  tide. 
By  overripe  pomegranate  juices  dyed, 
And  laving  boughs  of  the  wild  fig  and 

grape, 
Great  shoals  of  dazzling  fishes   madly 

ape 
The  play  of  silver  lightnings  in  the  deep 
Translucent  pools ;  the  crew  awoke  from 

sleep, 
Or  rather  that  strange  trance  that   on 

them  pressed 


Of  wave  and  sunbeam  touched  with  fra-  |    Gently  as  sleep;  yet  still  they  loved  to 

grant  calm.  rest, 

She  passed  by  beauteous  island  shores  of  Fanned   by   voluptuous   gales,   by  mor- 

pahn,  phean  languors  blessed. 


*  Sixteen  years  ago,  in  a  volume  of  com- 
paratively youthful  verses,  the  above  poem 
appeared  under  the  title  of  "  Avolio  ;  a  lec/end 
of  tin'  island  of  Cos."  The  original  narrative 
has  now  been  carefully  rewritten  and  amend- 
ed and  upwards  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  lines 
of  entirely  new  matter  have  been  added  thereto. 
So  far  as  we  know,  the  only  poet  who  has  cele- 
brated this  significant  and  beautiful  tradition, 


is  William  Morris,  in  the  first  section  of  whose 
'•  Earthly  Paradise  "  there  is  a  story  (called 
"  'The  Lad;/  of  /he  Land  "  )  founded  upon  some 
of  its  more  obvious  and  popular  incidents. 
Since  Morris's  wonderful  tales  were  not  pub- 
lished until  1868,  we  can,  at  least,  assert  the 
humble  claim  ol  precedence  in  the  poetical 
treatment  of  this  legend. 


THE    VENGEANCE    OF   THE    GODDESS   DIANA. 


179 


The  shore  sloped   upward  into  foliaged 

hills, 
Cleft    by  the   channels   of  rock-fretted 

rills, 
That  flashed  their  wavelets,  touched  by 

iris  lights, 
O'er    many   a  tiny   cataract  down   the 

heights. 

Green  vales  there  were  between,  and 
pleasant  lawns 

Thick  set  with  bloom,  like  sheen  of 
tropic  dawns, 

Brightening  the  orient ;  f urther  still  the 
glades 

Of  whisperous  forests,  flecked  with 
golden  shades, 

Stretched  glimmering  southward ;  on  the 
wood's  far  rim, 

Faintly  discerned  thro'  veiling  vapors, 
dim 

As  mists  of  Indian  summer,  the  broad 
view 

"Was  clasped  by  mountains  flickering  in 
the  blue 

And  hazy  distance ;  over  all  there  hung 

The  morn's  eternal  beauty,  calm  and 
young. 

Amid  the  throng,  each  with  a  marvel- 
ling face 

Turned  on  that  island  Eden  and  its 
grace, 

Was  one  —  Avolio  —  a  brave  youth  of 
Florence, 

Self-exiled  from  his  country,  in  abhor- 
rence 

Of  the  base,  blood-stained  tyrants  dom- 
inant there. 

A  gentleman  he  was,  of  gracious  air, 
And  liberal  as  the  summer,  skilled   in 

lore 
Of  arms,  and  chivalry,  and  many  more 
Deep    sciences   which    others    left    un- 
learned. 
He    loved    adventure;    how    his    spirit 

burned 
Within  him,  when,   as   now,  a  chance 
arose 


To  search  untravelled  forests,  and 
strange  foes 

Vanquish  by  puissance  of  knightly 
blows, 

Or  rescue  maidens  from  malignant 
spells, 

Enforced  by  hordes  of  wizard  sentinels. 

So  in  the  ardor  of  his  martial  glee, 

He  clapped  his  hands  and  shouted  sud- 
denly : 

"Ho!  sirs,  a  challenge!  let  us  pierce 
these  woods 

Down  to  the  core:  explore  their  sol- 
itudes, 

And  make  the  flowery  empire  all  our 
own: 

Who  knows  but  we  may  conquer  us  a 
throne '? 

At  least,  bold  feats  await  us,  grand  em- 
prise 

To  win  us  favor  in  our  ladies'  eyes  ; 

By  heaven!  he  is  a  coward  who  delays." 

So  saying,  all  his  countenance  ablaze 
With  passionate  zeal,  the  youth  sprang 

lightly  up, 
And   with   right    lusty  motion,  filled  a 

cup  — 
They  brought  him  straightway  —  to  the 

glistening  brim 
With   Cyprus  wine:  "Now  glory   unto 

him, 
The  ardent  knight,    no   mortal   danger 

daunts, 
"Whose    constant   soul   a    fiery  impulse 

haunts, 
Which  spurs   him   onward,   onward,   to 

the  end; 
Pledge  we  the  brave !  and  may  St.  Ermo 

send 
Success  to  crown  our  valiantest!  " 

This  said, 
Avolio  shoreward  leaped,  and  with  him 

led 
The  whole  ship's  company. 

A  motley  band 
Were  they  who  mustered  round  him  on 
the  strand, 


180 


LEGENDS    AND    LYRICS. 


Mixed  knights  and  traders ;  the  first  tired 
for  toil 

Which  promised  glory ;  the  last  keen  for 
spoil ! 

Thro'  breezy  paths  and  beds  of  blossom- 
ing thyme 

Kept  fresh  by  secret  springs,  the  show- 
ery cbime 

Of  whose  clear  falling  waters  in  the  dells 

Played  like  an  airy  peal  of  elfin  bells  — 

With  eager  minds,  bnt  aimless,  idle 
feet 

( The  scene  about  them  was  so  lone  and 
sweet 

It  spelled  their  steps),  'mid  labyrinths 
of  flowers, 

By  mossy  streams  and  in  deep  shadowed 
bowers, 

They  strayed  from  charm  to  charm 
thro'  lengths  of  languid  hours. 

In  thickets  of  wild  fern  and  rustling 
broom, 

The  humble  bee  buzzed  past  them 
with  a  boom 

Of  insect  thunder ;  and  in  glens  afar 

The'  golden  firefly  —  a  small  animate 
star  — 

Shone  from  the  twilight  of  the  darkling 
leaves. 

High  noon  it  was,  but  dusk  like  mellow 
eve's 

Reigned  in  the  wood's  deep  places, 
whence  it  seemed 

That  flashing  locks  and  quick  arch 
glances  gleamed 

From  eyes  scarce  human.  Thus  the 
fancy  deemed 

Of  those  most  given  to  marvels;  the  rest 
laughed 

A  merry  jeering  laugh;  and  many  a 
shaft 

Launched  from  the  Norman  cross  bow, 
pierced  the  nooks, 

Or  cleft  the  shallow  channels  of  the 
brooks, 

Whence,  as  the  credulous  swore,  an  Ore- 
ad shy, 

Or  a  glad  nymph,  had  peeped  out  cun- 
ningly. 


Thus  wandering,  they  reached  a  sombre 

mound 
Rising  abruptly  from  the  level  ground, 
And  planted  thick  with  dim   funereal 

trees, 
Whose   foliage   waved   and    murmured, 

tho'  the  breeze 
Had  sunk  to  midnight  quiet,  and  the  sky 
Just    o'er   the   place   seemed  locked  in 

apathy, 
Like   a  fair   face  wan   with  the  sudden 

stroke 
Of  death,  or  heart-break.     Not  a  word 

they  spoke, 
But  paused  with  wide,  bewildered,  gleam- 
ing eyes, 
Standing  at  gaze ;  what  spectral  terrors 

rise 
And  coil  about  their  hearts  with  serpent 

fold, 
And  oh !  what  loathly  scene  is  this  they 

bold, 
Grasping  with  unwinking  vision,  as  they 

creep, 
Urged    by    their    very  horror,   up    the 

steep, 
And  the  whole  preternatural  landscape 

dawns 
Freezingly  on  them;  a  broad  stretch  of 

lawns, 
Sown  with  rank  poisonous  grasses,  where 

the  dew 
Of  hovering  exhalations  flickered  blue 
And  wavering  on  the  dead-still  atmos- 
phere — 
Dead-still   it  was,   and   yet  the  grasses 

sere 
Stirred  as  with  horrid  life  amidst  the 

sickening  glare. 
The  affrighted  crew,  all  save  Avolio,  fled 
In    wild    disorder    from    this    place    of 

dread ; 
In    him,    albeit    his    terror    whispered 

"fly!" 
The  spell  of  some  uncouth  necessity 
Baffled  retreat,   and    ruthless,   scourged 

him  on ; 
Meanwhile,  the  sun  thro'  darkening  va- 
pors shone. 


THE    VENGEANCE    OF    THE    GODDESS   DIANA. 


181 


Nigh  to  his  setting,  and  a  sudden  blast  — 

In     wailful     murmurs      of      articulate 

Sudden  and  chill  —  woke  shrilly  up,  and 

woe, 

passed 

Till  at  the  last  arose  this  strange  dirge 

With    ghostly    din    and    tumult;     airy 

from  below: 

sounds 

Of  sylvan  horns,  and  sweep  of  circling 

SONG   OF   THE    IMPRISONED    NAIAD. 

hounds 

Nearing  the   quarry.      Now  the  wizard 

' '  Woe !  woe  is   me !  the   centuries   pass 

chase 

away, 

Swept  faintly,  faintly  up  the   fields  of 

The  mortal  seasons  run  their  ceaseless 

space, 

rounds, 

And  now  with  backward  rushing  whirl 

While  here  I  wither  for  the  sunbright 

roared  by 

day, 

Louder   and    fiercer,    till    a    maddening 

Its  genial  sights  and  sounds. 

cry  — 

Woe !  woe  is  me ! 

A  bitter  shriek  of  human  agony  — 

Leaped  up,  and  died  amid  the  stifling 

'•  One  summer  night,  in  ages  long  agone, 

yell 

I  saw  my  woodland  lover  leave   the 

Of  brutes  athirst  for  blood ;  a  crowning 

brake ; 

swell 

I   heard   him  plaining  on  the  peaceful 

Of  savage  triumph  followed,  mixed  with 

lawn 

wTails 

A  plaint  '  for  my  sweet  sake.' 

Sad  as  the  dying  songs  of  nightingales, 

Woe !  woe  is  me ! 

Murmuring  the  name  Actteon ! 

Even  as  one, 

"  My  heart  upsprang  to  answer  that  fond 

A  wrapt  sleep-walker,  through  the  shad- 

lay, 

ows  dun 

But    suddenly    the    star-girt    planets 

Of  half  oblivious   sense,   with    soulless 

paled, 

gaze, 

And  high  into  the  welkin's  glimmering 

Goes  idly  journeying  through  uncertain 

gray 

ways, 

Majestic  Dian  sailed ! 

Thus  did  Avolio,  sore  perplexed  in  mind 

Woe!  woe  is  me! 

(Excess    of     mystery    made    his    spirit 

blind), 

"She   swept  aloft,   bold   almost  as  the 

Grope   through    the   gloom.     Anon    he 

sun, 

reached  a  fount 

And  wrathful  red  as  fiery-crested  Mars ; 

Whose  watery  columns  had  long  ceased 

Ah !  then  I  knew  some  fearful  deed  was 

to  mount 

done 

Above  its  prostrate   Tritons.     Near  at 

On  earth,  or  in  the  stars. 

hand, 

Woe!  woe  is  me! 

Dammed  up  in  part  by  heaps  of  tawny 

sand, 

"With  ghastly  face  upraised,  and  shud- 

All   dull    and    lustreless,    a    streamlet 

dering  throat, 

wound 

I  watched  the  omen  with  a  prescient 

By  trickling   banks,    with    dark,    dank 

pain ; 

foliage  crowned, 

When,  lightning-barbed,  a  beamy  arrow 

That  gloomed  'twixt  sullen   tides  and 

smote. 

lowering  sky; 

Or  seemed  to  smite,  my  brain. 

The  melancholy  waters  seemed  to  sigh 

Woe !  woe  is  me ! 

182 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


"  Oblivion  clasped  me,  till   I  woke  for- 

Just then,  uplifting  his  bewildered  eyes, 

lorn, 

He  saw,   half   hid   in  shade,  on  either 

Fettered  and  sorrowing  on  this  lonely 

hand, 

bed, 

Twin  pillars  of  a  massive  gateway  grand 

Shut  from   the   mirthful   kisses   of  the 

With  gold  and  carvings ;  close  behind  it 

morn  — 

stood 

Earth's  glories  overhead. 

A  sombre  mansion  in  a  beech  tree  wood. 

Woe!  woe  is  me! 

Long  wreaths  of  ghostly  ivy  on  its  walls 

"  The  south  wind  stirs  the  sedges  into 

Quivered  like  goblin  tapestry,  or  palls. 

song, 

Tattered  and  rusty,  mildewed  in  the  chill 

The  blossoming  myrtles  scent  the  en- 

Of dreadful  vaults;  across  each  window 

amored  air; 

sill 

But  still,   sore  moaning    for   another's 

Curtains  of  weird  device  and  fiery  hue 

wrong, 

Hung   moveless,  —  only   when   the   sun 

I  pine  in  sadness  here. 

glanced  through 

Woe !  woe  is  me ! 

The  gathering  gloom,  the  hieroglyphs 

took  form 

"Alas  !     alas!      the     weary     centuries 

And  life  and  action,  and  the  whole  grew 

flee, 

warm 

The  waning  seasons  perish,  dark   or 

With     meanings    baffling    to     Avolio's 

bright ; 

sense; 

My  grief  alone,  like  some  charmed  poi- 

He stood  expectant,  trembling,  with  in- 

son-tree, 

tense 

Knows  not  an  autumn  blight. 

Dread  in  his  eyes,  and  yet  a  struggling 

Woe!   woe  is  me!  " 

faith, 

Vital    at    heart.       A    sudden     passing 

breath  — 

The  mournful  sounds  swooned  off,  but 

Was  it  the  wind  ?  —  thrilled  by  his  ting- 

Echo rose, 

ling  ear, 

And  bore  them  up  divinely  to  a  close 

Waving   the   curtains    inward,    and   his 

Of  rare  mysterious    sweetness  ;   never- 

fear 

more 

Uprose  victorious,  for  a  serpent  shape. 

Shall  mortal  winds  to  listening  wood  and 

Tall,  supple,   writhing,   with  malignant 

shore 

gape, 

Waft  such  heart-melting  music.  "Where, 

Which  showed  its  cruel  fangs  —  hissed 

oh!  where,'' 

in  the  gleam 

Avolio  murmured  —  "to  what  haunted 

Its  own  fell  eyeballs  kindled  !     Oh !  su- 

sphere — 

preme 

Has  fate  at  length  my  errant  footsteps 

The    horror    of     that    vision! — as    he 

brought  ?  " 

gazed, 

Irresolute,  all  wordless,  and  amazed. 

Launched  on   a   baffling  sea  of   mystic 

The   monster   disappeared  —  a  moment 

thought, 

sped ! 

His  reason  in  a  whirling  chaos,  lost 

The  next  it  fawned  before  him  on  a  bed 

Compass  and  chart  and  headway,  vague- 

Of  scarlet  poppies.     "Speak,''    Avolio 

ly  tossed 

said ; 

'Mid  shifting  shapes  of   winged    fanta- 

'"What  art    thou?      Speak!    I   charge 

sies. 

thee  in  God's  name!  " 

THE    VENGEANCE    OF   THE    GODDESS   DIANA. 


183 


A  death-cold  shudder  seized  the  serpent's 

The    island's   fated    queen?"      "Yea, 

frame, 

verily," 

Its    huge   throat  writhed,  whence  bub- 

Avolio cried,   "thou  art  that  thing  of 

bling  with  a  throe 
Of  hideous  import,  a  voice  thin  and  low 

J„--J                        J3 

Sharply  the  serpent  raised  its  glittering 

Broke  like  a  muddied  rill:     "Bethink 

head 

thee  well, 

And    front    tempestuous :    ' '  Hold !    no 

This  isle  is  Cos,  of  which  old  legends  tell 

tongue  save  mine 

Such  marvels.      Hast  thou  never  heard 

Must  of  these  miseries  tell  thee !    Then 

of  me, 

incline 

1  A  monster  meet  for  Tartarus,  a  thing 
Whereon  men  gaze  with  awe  and  shuddering 


Thine   ear  to    the    dark    story  of    my 

grief, 
And  with  thine  ear  yield,  yield  me  thy 

belief. 
Foul    as     I     am,    there    loas    a    time, 

O  youth, 
When  these  fierce  eyes  were  founts  of 

love  and  truth ; 
There    was     a     time     when     woman's 

blooming  grace 
Glowed   through  the    flush  of    roses  in 

my  face ; 
When  —  but  I  sinned  a  deep  and  damn- 


The  fruit  of  lustful  pride  nurtured 
within 

By  weird,  forbidden  knowledge  —  I 
defied 

The  night's  immaculate  goddess,  purest 
eyed, 

And  holiest  of  immortals;  I  denied 

The  eternal  Power  that  looks  so  cold  and 
calm ; 

Therefore,  O  stranger,  am  I  what  I 
am, 

A  monster  meet  for  Tartarus,  a  thing 

Whereon  men  gaze  with  awe  and  shud- 
dering, 


184 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


And  stress  of  inward  terror;  through  all 

time, 
Down    to    the    last    age,   my   abhorred 

crime 
Must    hold    me    prisoner    in    this    vile 

abode, 
Unless  some  man,   large-hearted  as  a 

God, 
Bolder  than  Ajax,  mercifully  deign 
To  kiss  me  on  the  mouth  .'  " 

She  towered  amain, 
With    sparkling    crest,    and    universal 

thrill 
Of  frenzied   eagerness,  that  seemed   to 

fill 
Her  cavernous  eyes  with  jets  of   lurid 

fire, 
Pulsed  from  the  burning  core  of  unap- 

peased  desire. 

Back   stepped   Avolio   with   a   loathing 

fear, 
Sick  to   the   inmost  soul;  then  did   he 

hear 
The    awful    creature    vent    a    tortured 

groan, 
Her  frantic  neck  and  dragon's  forehead 

thrown 
Madly   to    earth,   whereon    awhile    she 

lay, 
Her  glances  veiled,  her  dark  crest  turned 

away. 

As  thus  she  grovelled,  quivering  on  the 

ground. 
Stole   through  the   brooding    silence   a 

faint  sound 
As  'twere  of  hopeless  grief  —  it  seemed 

to  be 
A  human  voice  weeping  how  piteously ! 
Yet   its   deep  passion   striving  to   sub- 
due. 
Just  then  the  serpent  writhed  her  folds 

anew, 
And  while  from  earth  her  horrent  crest 

she  rears, 
The  loa'.hly  creature's  face  is  bathed  in 

tears! 


"Lady!"  the  knight  said,  "if  in  sooth 
thou  art 

A  maid  and  human,  wherefore  thus  de- 
part 

From  truth's  plain  path  to  blind  me  ? 
well  I  know 

This  Dian,  famed  and  worshipped  long 
ago 

By  heathen  folk,  was  as  the  idle  fume 

Formed  into  shifting  shapes  of  vaporous 
bloom 

O'er  her  vain  altars.  Ah!''  (he  shud- 
dered now, 

Growing  death-pale  from  tremulous  chin 
to  brow) 

"Ah,  God  .'  I  cannot  kiss  thee  !  Ne'er- 
theless, 

Fain  am  I  in  the  true  God's  name  to  bless, 

And  even  to  mark  thee  with  His  sacred 
cross ! ' ' 

As  one  weighed   down  by  anguish  and 

the  loss 
Of  one  last  hope,  in  faltering  tones  and 

sad 
The  serpent  spake:  "  Deem'st  thou  that 

Dian  had 
Xo  life  but  that  wherewith  her  votaries 

vain 
Invested  a  vague  image  of  the  brain  ? 
Nay,  she  both  was  and  was  not,  as  on 

earth. 
Even  to  this  day,  full  many  a  thing  from 

birth 
To  death  lapses  alike  through  bane  and 

bliss; 
Full   many  a  thing,  which  is    not   and 

yet  is, 
Save  to  man's  purblind  vision;  —  in  the 

end 
Some  clearer  spirits  may  rise  to  compre- 
hend 
This  strange    enigma!    but  meanwhile, 

meanwhile 
The  sure  heavens  change  not,  star  and 

sunbeam  smile 
Fair  as  of  yore ;  eternal  nature  keeps 
Her    strength  and   beauty,  though   the 

mortal  weeps 


THE    VENGEANCE    OF   THE    GODDESS   DIANA. 


185 


In  desolation !  Oh!  wert  thou  but  true 
And  brave  enow  this  thing  I  ask  to  do, 
Then  human,  happy,  beauteous  would  I 

be, 
Ye  merciful  Gods!  once  more!" 

Then  suddenly 

She  writhed  her  vast  neck  round,  her 
glittering  crest 

Cast  backward  o?er  the  fierce,  tumultu- 
ous breast, 

Red  as  a  stormy  sunset  —  with  a  moan, 

'•  Pass  on,  weak  soul! "  she  said,  "  leave 
me  alone ; ' ' 

Then,  wildly,  "Go!  I  would  not  catch 
thine  eye; 

Go,  and  be  safe!  for  swiftly,  furiously, 

Surges  a  cruel  thought  through  all  my 
blood, 

And  the  brute  instincts  turn  to  hardi- 
hood 

Of  vengeful  impulse  all  my  gentler 
frame ; 

Go !  for  I  would  not  harm  thee ;  yet  a 
flame 

Of  blasting  torments  have  I  power  to 
raise 

Through  all  thy  being,  and  mine  eyes 
could  gaze, 

Gloating  on  pain.  Is  this  not  horri- 
ble ?  " 

And  therewithal  the  wretched  monster 
fell 

To  open  weeping,  with  sad  front,  and 
bowed. 

Something  in  such  base  cruelty  avowed, 

Blent  with  the  softer  will  which  disal- 
lowed 

Its  exercise,  so  on  Avolio  wrought, 

Tbat  sore  perplexed,  revolving  many  a 
thought, 

He  lingered  still,  lost  in  a  spiritual  mist; 

But  when  the  mouth  that  waited  to  be 
kissed, 

Fringed  with  a  yellow  foam,  malignly 
rose 

Before  him,  his  first  fear  its  terrible 
throes 


Renewed.  "And  how,  O  baleful 
shape ! ' '  said  he  — 

Striving  to  speak  in  passionless  tones, 
and  free  — 

"  How  can  I  tell,  what  certain  gage  have 
1, 

That  this  strange  kiss  thine  awful  des- 
tiny 

Hath  not  ordained  —  the  least  elaborate 
plan 

Whereby  to  snare  and  slay  me  ?  "  "  O 
man !  man ! ' ' 

The  serpent  answered,  with  a  loftier 
mien  — 

A  voice  grown  clear,  majestic  and  se- 
rene — 

"Shall  matter  always  triumph?  the 
base  mould 

Mask  the  immortal  essence,  uncontrolled 

Save  by  your  grovelling  fancies  mean 
and  cold  ? 

O  green  and  happy  woods,  breathing  like 
sleep ! 

O  quiet  habitants  of  places  deep 

In  leafy  shades,  that  draw  your  peaceful 
breaths, 

Passing  fair  lives  to  rest  in  tranquil 
deaths ! 

O  earth!  O  sea!  O  heavens!  forever 
dumb 

To  man,  while  ages  go  and  ages  come 

Mysterious,  have  the  dark  Fates  willed 
it  so 

That  nevermore  the  sons  of  men  shall 
know 

The  secret  of  your  silence  ?  the  wide 
scope 

Granted  your  basking  pleasures,  and 
sweet  hope, 

Revived  in  vernal  warmth  and  spring- 
tide rains, 

Your  long,  long  pleasures,  and  your 
fleeting  pains  ? 

And  must  the  lack  of  what  is  brave  and 
true, 

From  other  souls,  callous  or  blind  there- 
to, 

From  what  themselves  beauteous  and 
truthful  are, 


186 


LEGENDS   AND    LYRICS. 


Differ  for  aye   as   glow-worms   from   a 

star  ? 
Is  such  our  life's  decretal  ?     Shall  the 

faith 
Which    even,    perchance,    the    clearest 

spirit  hath 
In  good  within  us,   always  prove  less 

bold 
Than  keen  suspicions,  nursed  by  craven 

doubt, 
Of  treacherous  ills,  and  evil  from  with- 
out?" 
Then,  after  pause,   with  passion:   "  O 

etern 
And  bland  benignities,  that  breathe  and 

burn 
Throughout   creation,   are   we  but    the 

motes 
In  some  vague  dream  that   idly  sways 

and  floats 
To   nothingness  ?    or   are   your   glories 

pent 
Within  ourselves,  to  rise  omnipotent 
In  bloom   and    music,   when   we  bend 

above, 
And  wake   them  by  the  kisses  of  our 

love  ? 
I  yearn  to  be  made  beautiful.     Alas ! 
Beauty  itself  looks  on,  prepared  to  pass, 
In  hardened  disbelief!  one  action  kind 
Would  free  and  save  me  —  why  art  thou 

so  blind, 
Avolio  ?  "     While  she  spoke,  a  timorous 

hare, 
Scared  by  a  threatening  falcon  from  its 

lair, 
Rushed    to    the    serpent's    side.     With 

fondling  tongue 
She  soothed  it  as  a  mother  soothes  her 

young. 

Avolio  mused  :  "  Can    innocent  things 

like  this 
Take  refuge  by  her  ?  then,   perchance, 

some  good, 
Some  tenderness,  if  rightly  understood, 
Lurks  in  her  nature.  I  villi  do  the  deed  ! 
Christ  and  the  Virgin  save  me  at  my 

need." 


He   signed   the   monster  nearer,  closed 

his  eyes, 
And  with  some  natural  shuddering,  some 

deep  sighs ! 
Gave  up  his  pallid  lij>s  to  the  foul  kiss  ! 
AVhat  followed  then  ?  a  traitorous  ser- 
pent hiss, 
Sharper  for  triumph  ?    Ah!  not  so  —  he 

felt 
A  warm,  rich,  yearning  mouth  approach 

and  melt 
In  languid,  loving  sweetness  on  his  own, 
And  two  fond   arms    caressingly  were 

thrown 
About    his    neck,    and    on    his    bosom 

pressed 
Twin  lilies  of  a  snow  white  virgin  breast. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  released  from  brief 

despair ; 
Tliey  rested  on  a  maiden  tall  and  fair  — 
Fair  as  the  tropic  morn,  when  morn  is 

new  — 
And  her  sweet  glances  smote  him  through 

and  through 
With  such  keen  thrilling  rapture  that  he 

swore 
His  willing  heart  should  evermore  adore 
Her  loveliness,  and  woo  her  till  he  died. 

"  I  am  thine  own,"  she  whispered,  "thy 
true  bride, 

If  thou  wilt  take  me!  " 

Hand  in  hand  they  strayed 

Adown  the  shadows  through  the  wood- 
land glade, 

Whence    every    evil    influence    shrank 
afraid, 

And  round  them  poured  the  golden  even- 
tide. 

Swiftly  the  tidings  of  this  strange  event 

Abroad  on  all  the  garrulous  winds  were 
sent, 

Rousing  an  eager  world  to  wonderment ! 

Now  'mid  the  knightly  companies  that 

came 
To  visit  Cos,  was  that  brave  chief,  by 

fame 


THE   SOLITARY  LAKE 


187 


Exalted  for  bold  deeds  and  faith  divine, 

So  nobly  shown  erewhile  in  Palestine  — 

Tancred,  Salerno's  Prince  —  he  came  in 
state, 

With  fourscore  gorgeous  barges,  small 
and  great, 

With  pomp  and  music,  like  an  ocean 
Fate; 

His  blazoned  prows  along  the  glimmer- 
ing sea 

Spread  like  an  eastern  sunrise  gloriously. 

Him  and  his  followers  did  Avolio  feast 
Right  royally,  but  when  the  mirth  in- 
creased, 
And  joyous-winged  jests  began  to  pass 
Above  the  sparkling  cups  of  Hippocras, 
Tancred  arose,  and  in  his  courtly  phrase 
Invoked  delight  and  length  of  prosperous 

days 
To  crown  that  magic  union;  one  vague 

doubt 
The  Prince  did  move,  and  this  he  dared 

speak  out, 
But  with  serene  and  tempered  courtesy : 
"  It  could  not  be  that  their  sweet  hostess 

still 
Worshipped    Diana    and    her    heathen 
will?" 

"Ah    sir!    not    so!''     Avolio    flushing 

cried, 
"But  Christ  the  Lord!'' 

Xo  single  word  replied 
The  beauteous  lady,  but  with  gentle  pride 
And  a  quick  motion  to  Avolio' s  side 
She  drew  more  closely  by  a  little  space, 
Gazing  with  modest  passion  in  his  face, 
As  one  who  yearned  to  whisper  tenderly: 
"  O,  brave  kind  heart!    I  worship  only 

thee!" 


THE   SOLITARY  LAKE. 

From  garish  light  and  life  apart, 
Shrined  in  the  woodland's  secret  heart, 
With  delicate  mists  of  morning  furled 
Fantastic  o'er  its  shadowy  world, 


The  lake,  a  vaporous  vision,  gleams 
So  vaguely  bright,  my  fancy  deems 
'Tis  but  an  airy  lake  of  dreams. 

Dreamlike,  in  curves  of  palest  gold, 
The  wavering  mist-wreaths  manifold 
Part  in  long  rifts,  through  which  I  view 
Gray  islets  throned  in  tides  as  blue 
As  if  a  piece  of  heaven  withdrawn  — 
Whence     hints    of    sunrise    touch    the 

dawn  — 
Had  brought  to  earth  its  sapphire  glow, 
And  smiled,  a  second  heaven,  below. 

Dreamlike,  in  fitful,  murmurous  sighs, 

I  hear  the  distant  west  wind  rise, 

And,    down    the     hollows    wandering, 

break 
In  gurgling  ripples  on  the  lake, 
Round  which  the  vapors,  still  outspread, 
Mount  wanly  widening  overhead, 
Till  flushed  by  morning's  primrose-red. 

Dreamlike,  each  slow,  soft-pulsing  surge 
Hath   lapped   the   calm   lake's   emerald 

verge, 
Sending,  where'er  its  tremors  pass 
Low  whisperings  through  the  dew-wet 

grass ; 
Faint  thrills  of  fairy  sound  that  creep 
To  fall  in  neighboring  nooks  asleep, 
Or  melt  in  rich,  low  warblings  made 
By  some  winged  Ariel  of  the  glade. 

With  brightening  morn  the  mockbird's 

lay 
Grows  stronger,  mellower ;  far  away 
'Mid  dusky  reeds,  which  even  the  noon 
Lights  not,  the  lonely-hearted  loon  • 
Makes  answer,  her  shrill  music  shorn 
Of  half  its  sadness;  day,  full-born, 
Doth  rout  all  sounds  and  sights  forlorn. 

Ah!  still  a  something  strange  and  rare 
O'errules  this  tranquil  earth  and  air, 
Casting  o'er  both  a  glamour  known 
To  their  enchanted  realm  alone; 
Whence  shines,  as  'twere  a  spirit's  face, 
The  sweet  coy  genius  of  the  place, 


188 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


You  hike  beheld  as  if  in  trance, 
The  beauty  of  whose  shy  romance 
I  feei  —  whatever  shores  and  skies 
May  charm   henceforth   my  wondering 

eyes,  — 
Shall  rest,  undinimed  by  taint  or  stain, 
'Mid  lonely  byways  of  the  brain, 
There,  with  its  haunting  grace,  to  seem 
Set  in  the  landscape  of  a  dream. 


THE    VOICE   IX  THE  PIXES. 

The  morn  is  softly  beautiful  and  still, 
Its  light  fair  clouds  in  pencilled  gold 
and  gray 
Pause  motionless  above  the  pine-grown 

hill. 
Where  the  pines,  tranced  as  by  a  wiz- 
ard's will. 
Uprise    as   mute    and    motionless    as 
they! 

Yea !  mute  and  moveless ;  not  one  flick- 
ering spray 
Flashed    into   sunlight,   nor   a  gaunt 
bough  stirred: 
Yet,  if  wooed  hence  beneath  those  pines 

to  stray. 
We  catch  a  faint,  thin  murmur  far  away, 
A  bodiless  voice,  by  grosser  ears  un- 
heard. 

What  voice  is  this  '?  what  low  and  sol- 
emn tone, 
Which,   though  all   wings  of   all    the 
winds  seem  furled, 
Nor  even  the  zephyr's  fairy  flute  is  blown, 
Makes  thus  forever  its  mysterious  moan 
From  out  the  whispering    pine-tops' 
shadowy  world  ? 

Ah !  can  it  be  the  antique  tales  are  true  ? 
Doth    some    lone    Dryad    haunt    the 
breezeless  air. 
Fronting  yon  bright  immitigable  blue, 
And  wildly  breathing  all  her  wild  soul 
through 
That  strange  unearthly  music  of  de- 
spair ? 


Or  can   it  be    that   ages   since,    storm- 
tossed. 
And  driven  far  inland  from  the  roar- 
ing lea, 
Some  baffled  ocean-spirit,  worn  and  lost, 
Here,  through  dry  summer's  dearth  and 
winter's  frost, 
Yearns  for  the  sharp,  sweet  kisses  of 
the  sea? 

Whate'er  the  spell,   I  hearken  and   am 
dumb, 
Dream-touched,   and    musing    in    the 
tranquil  morn ; 

All   woodland   sounds  —  the   pheasant's 
gusty  drum. 

The  mock-bird's  fugue,  the  droning  in- 
sect's hum  — 
Scarce  heard  for  that  strange,  sorrow- 
ful voice  forlorn ! 

Beneath  the  drowsed  sense,  from  deep  to 

deep 
Of  spiritual  life   its  mournful  minor 

flows, 
Streamlike,   with    pensive    tide,    whose 

currents  keep 
Low  murmuring  'twixt   the   bounds  of 

grief  and  sleep, 
Y'et  locked  for  aye  from  sleep's  divine 

repose. 


VISIT  OF  THE   WRENS. 

Flyixg  from  out  the  gusty  west. 
To  seek  the  place  where  last  year's  nest, 
Eagged,  and  torn  by  many  a  roul 
Of  winter  winds,  still  rocks  about 
The  branches  of  the  gnarled  old  tree 
Which  sweep  my  cottage  library  — 
Here  on  the  genial  southern  side. 
In  a  late  gleam  of  sunset's  pride. 
Came  back  my  tiny,  springtide  friends, 
The  self-same  pair  of  chattering  wrens 
That  with  arch  eyes  and  restless  bill 
Used  to  frequent  yon  window  sill, 
Winged    sprites,    in    April's     showery 
H'low. 


VISIT  TO   THE   WRENS. 


189 


'  Tis  now  twelve  weary  months  ago 
Since  first  I  saw  them ;  here  again 
They  drop  outside  the  glittering  pane, 
Each  bearing  a  dried  twig  or  leaf, 
To  build  with  labor  hard,  yet  brief, 
This   season's    nest,    where,    blue    and 

round, 
Their  fairy  eggs  will  soon  be  found. 
But  sky  and  breeze  and  blithesome  sun, 
Until  that  little  home  is  done, 
Shall  —  wondering,    maybe  —  hear    and 

see 
Such  chatter,  bustle,  industry, 
As  well  may  stir  to  emulous  strife 
Slow  currents  of  a  languid  life, 
Whether  in  bird  or  man  they  run ! 

But  when,  in  sooth,  the  nest  complete 
Swings  gently  in  its  green  retreat. 
And  soft  the  motlier  birdling's  breast 
Doth  in  the  cozy  circlet  rest, 
How,  back  from  jovial  journeying, 
Merry  of  heart,,  though  worn  of  wing, 
Her  brown  mate,  proudly  perched  above 
The  limb  that  holds  his  brooding  love, 
His  head  upturned,  his  aspect  sly, 
Bcgards  her  with  a  cunning  eye, 
As  one  who  saith,  "  How  well  you  bear 
The  dullness  of  these  duties,  dear; 
To  dwell  so  long  on  nest  or  tree 
Would  be,  I  know,  slow  death  to  me; 
But,  then,  you  women  folk  were  made 
FoLpatient  waiting,  in  —  the  shade!" 

So  tame  one  little  guest  becomes  — 
"Tis     the     male     bird  —  my    scattered 

crumbs' 
He  takes  from  window  sill  and  lawn 
Each  morning  in  the  early  dawn ; 
And  yesterday  he  dared  to  stand 
Serenely  on  my  outstretched  hand, 
While    his    wee    wife,     with    puzzled 

glance, 
Looked  from  her  breezy  seat  askance! 

My  pretty  pensioners!  ye  have  flown 
Twice  from  your  winter  nook  unknown, 
To  build  your  humble  homestead  here, 
In  the  first  flush  of  springtide  cheer; 


But  all !  I  wonder  if  again, 
Flitting  outside  the  window  pane, 
When   next   the   shrewd    March  winds 

shall  blow, 
Or  in  mild  April's  showers  glow, 
New  come    from   out  the    shimmering 

west, 
You'll    seek    the    place    of    this  year's 

nest, 
Bagged  and  torn  by  then,  no  doubt, 
And  swinging  in  worn  shreds  about 
The  branches  of  the  ancient  tree. 

Nay,  who  may  tell '?    Yet,  verily, 
Methinks    when,    spring    and    summer 

passed, 
Adown  the  long,  low  autumn  blast, 
In  some  dim  gloaming,  chill  and  drear, 
You,  with  your  fledglings,  disappear, 
That  ne'er  by  porch  or  tree  or  pane 
Mine  eyes  shall  greet  your  forms  again ! 

What    then '?      At    least    the    good   ye 

brought, 
The  delicate  charms  for  eye  and  thought 
Survives ;  though  death  should  be  your 

doom 
Before  another  spring  flower's  bloom, 
Or  fairer  clime  should  tempt  your  wings 
To  bide  'mid  fragrant  blossomings 
On  some  far  Southland's  golden  lea, 
Still  may  fresh  spring  morns  light  for 

me 
Your  tiny  nest,  their  breezes  bear 
Your  chirping,  household  joyance  near 
And  all  your  quirks  and  tricksome  ways 
Bring  back  through  many  smiling  days 
Or  future  Aprils ;  not  the  less 
Your  simple  drama  shall  impress 
Fancy  and  heart,  thus  acted  o'er 
Toward  each  small  issue,  as  of  yore, 
With  sun  and  wind  and  skies  of  blue 
To  witness,  wondering,  all  you  do, 
Because  your  happy  toil  and  mirth 
May  be  of  fine,  ideal  birth ; 
Because  each  quick,  impulsive  note 
May  thrill  a  visionary  throat, 
Each  flash  of  glancing  wing  and  eye 
Be  gleams  of  vivid  fantasy; 


190 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Since  whatsoe'er  of  form  and  tone 

A  past  reality  hath  known. 

Most  charming  unto  soul  and  sense, 

But  wins  that  subtle  effluence, 

That  spiritual  air  which  softly  clings 

About  all  sweet  and  vanished  things, 

Causing  a  bygone  joy  to  be 

Vital  as  actuality, 

Yet  with  each  earthlier  tint  or  trace 

Lost  in  a  pure,  ethereal  grace ! 


FOREST  PICTURES. 
MORNING. 

O   gracious   breath  of   sunrise!  divine 
air! 
That  brood' st  serenely  o'er  the  pur- 
pling hills; 

O   blissful   valleys!    nestling,    cool   and 
fair, 
In  the  fond  arms  of  yonder  murmur- 
ous rills, 

Breathing  their  grateful  measures  to  the 
sun ; 

O  dew-besprinkled  paths,  that  circling 
run 

Through  sylvan  shades  and  solemn  si- 
lences, 

Once  more  ye  bring  my  fevered  spirit 
peace ! 

The  fitful  breezes,  fraught  with  forest 
balm. 
Faint,  in  rare  wafts  of  perfume,  on  my 
brow ; 

The  woven  lights  and  shadows,  rife  with 
calm, 
Creep   slantwise    'twixt    the    foliage, 
bough  on  bough 

Uplifted    heavenward,    like    a    verdant 
cloud 

Whose  rain   is   music,  soft   as   love,  or 
loud 

With    jubilant    hope  —  for    there,    en- 
tranced, apart, 

The  mock-bird  sings,  close,  close  to  Na- 
ture's heart. 


Shy  forms  about  the  greenery,  out  and 
in. 
Flit  'neath  the  broadening  glories  of 
the  morn; 

The  squirrel  —  that  quaint  sylvan  harle- 
quin — 
Mounts  the  tall  trunks ;  Avhile  swift  as 
lightning,  born 

Of  summer  mists,  from  tangled  vine  and 
tree 

Dart  the  dove's  pinions,  pulsing  vividly 

Down   the  dense  glades,  till  glimmering 
far  and  gray 

The  dusky  vision  softly  melts  away ! 

In   transient,    pleased    bewilderment    I 
mark 
The  last  dim  shimmer  of  those  lessen- 
ing wings, 

When    from   lone    copse  and   shadowry 
covert,  hark! 
What  mellow   tongue  through  all  the 
woodland  rings ! 

The   deer-hound's   voice,   sweet    as  the 
golden  bell's. 

Prolonged   by  flying    echoes  round  the 
dells, 

And    up    the    loftiest    summits    wildly 
borne. 

Blent  with  the  blast  of  some  keen  hunts- 
man's horn. 

And  now  the  checkered  vale  is  left  be- 
hind ; 
I  climb  the  slope,  and  reach  the  hill- 
top bright ; 

Here,  in   bold  freedom,  swells  a  sover- 
eign wind, 
Whose  gusty  prowess  sweeps  the  pine- 
clad  height; 

"While  the  pines  —  dreamy  Titans  roused 
from  sleep  — 

Answer   with    mighty   voices,   deep  on 
deep 

Of    wakened    foliage     surging    like    a 
sea; 

And  o'er   them  smiles   Heaven's   calm 
infinity! 


"The  woven  lights  and  shadows,  rife  with  calm 
Creep  slantwise  'twixt  the  foliage,  bough  on  bough.' 


GOLDEN  DELL.  — ASPECTS    OF   THE  PINES. 


191 


GOLDEN  DELL. 

Beyond  our  moss-grown  pathway  lies 
A  dell  so  fair,  to  genial  eyes 
It  dawns  an  ever-fresh  surprise ! 

To  touch  its  charms  with  gentler  grace, 
The  softened  heavens  a  loving  face 
Bend  o'er  that  sweet,  secluded  place. 

There  first,   despite  the  March   wind's 

cold, 
Above  the  pale-hued  emerald  mould 
The  earliest  spring-tide  buds  unfold ; 

There  first  the  ardent  mock-bird,  long 
Winter's     dumb    thrall,    from   winter's 

wrong 
Breaks  into  gleeful  floods  of  song; 

Till,  from  coy  thrush  to  garrulous  wren, 
The  humbler  bards  of  copse  and  glen 
Outpour  their  vernal  notes  again; 

While  such  harmonious  rapture  rings, 
With  stir  and  flash  of  eager  wings 
Glimpsed    fleetly,  where    the    jasmine 
clings 

To  bosk  and  briar,  we  blithely  say, 
"Farewell!  bleak  nights  and  mornings 

gray, 
Earth  opes  her  festal  court  to-day!  " 

There,  first,  from  out  some  balmy  nest, 
By  half-grown  woodbine  flowers  caressed, 
Steal  zephyrs  of  the  mild  southwest ; 

O'er  purpling  rows  of  wild-wood  peas,* 
So  blandly  borne,  the  droning  bees 
Still  suck  their  honeyed  cores  at  ease ; 

Or,   trembling  through    yon    verdurous 

mass, 
Dew-starred,  and  dimpling  as  they  pass 
The  wavelets  of  the  billowy  grass ! 


*  In  the  Southern  woods,  often  among  sterile 
tracts  of  pine  barren,  a  species  of  ivild  pea  is 
found,  or  a  plant  which  in  all  externals  resem- 
bles the  pea  plant. 


But,  fairest  of  fair  things  that  dwell 

'Mid  sylvan  nurslings  of  the  dell, 

Is  that  clear  stream  whose  murmurs  swell 

To  music's  airiest  issues  wrought, 
As  if  a  Naiad's  tongue  were  fraught 
With  secrets  of  its  whispered  thought. 

Yes,  fairest  of  fair  things,  it  flows 
'Twixt  banks  of  violet  and  of  rose, 
Touched  always  by  a  quaint  repose. 

How  golden  bright  its  currents  glide! 
While  goldenly  from  side  to  side 
Bird  shadows  flit  athwart  the  tide. 

So  Golden  Dell  we  name  the  place, 
And  aye  may  Heaven's  serenest  face 
Dream  o'er  it  with  a  smile  of  grace; 

For  nest  the  moss-grown  path  it  lies, 
So  pure,  so  fresh  to  genial  eyes 
It  slows  with  hints  of  Paradise ! 


ASPECTS   OF  THE  PINES. 

Tall,  sombre,  grim,  against  the  morn- 
ing sky 
They  rise,  scarce  touched  by  melan- 
choly airs, 
Which  stir  the  fadeless  foliage  dream- 
fully, 
As  if  from  realms  of  mystical  despairs. 

Tall,    sombre,    grim,  they    stand  with 
dusky  gleams 
Brightening  to  gold  within  the  wood- 
land's core, 
Beneath  the  gracious  noontide's  tranquil 
beams  — 
But  the  weird  winds  of  morning  sigh 
no  more. 

A  stillness,  strange,  divine,  ineffable, 
Broods  round   and  o'er  them  in  the 
wind's  surcease, 
And  on  each  tinted  copse  and  shimmer- 
ing dell 
Bests  the  mute  rapture  of  deep  heart- 
ed peace. 


VJ-2 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Last,  sunset  comes  —  the  solemn  joy  and 
might 
Borne  from  the  "West  when  cloudless 
day  declines  — 
Low,  flutelike  breezes  sweep  the  waves 
of  light, 
And  lifting  dark  green  tresses  of  the 
pines, 

Till  every  lock  is  luminous  —  gently  float, 
Fraught  with  hale  odors  up  the  heav- 
ens afar 
To  faint  when  twilight  on  her  virginal 
throat 
Wears  for  a  gem  the  tremulous  vesper 
star. 


MIDSUMMER  IN   THE  SOUTH. 

I  love  Queen  August's  stately  sway, 
And  all  her  fragrant  south  winds  say, 
With      vague,      mysterious      meanings 

fraught, 
Of  unimaginable  thought; 
Those  winds,  'mid  change  of  gloom  and 

gleam, 
Seem  wandering  thro'  a  golden  dream  — 
The  rare  midsummer  dream  that  lies 
In  humid  depths  of  nature's  eyes, 
Weighing  her  languid  forehead  down 
Beneath  a  fair  but  fiery  crown: 
Its  witchery  broods  o'er  earth  and  skies, 
Fills  with  divine  amenities 
The  bland,  blue  spaces  of  the  air, 
And  smiles  with  looks  of  drowsy  cheer 
'Mid  hollows  of  the  brown-hued  hills; 
And  oft,  in  tongues  of  tinkling  rills, 
A  softer,  homelier  utterance  finds 
Than  that  which  haunts  the  lingering 

winds! 

I  love  midsummer's  azure  deep, 
Whereon  the  huge  white  clouds,  asleep, 
Scarce  move  through  lengths  of  tranced 

hours; 
Some,  raised  in  forms  of  giant  towers  — 
Dumb  Babels,  with  ethereal  stairs 
Scaling  the  vast  height  —  unawares 


What  mocking  spirit,  ajther-born, 
Hath   built    those    transient    spires    in 

scorn. 
And  reared  towards  the  topmost  sky 
Their  unsubstantial  fantasy! 
Some  stretched  in  tenuous  arcs  of  light 
Athwart  the  airy  infinite, 
Far  glittering  up  yon  fervid  dome, 
And  lapped  by  cloudland's  misty  foam, 
Whose  wreaths  of  fine  sun-smitten  spray 
Melt  in  a  burning  haze  away: 
Some    throned     in    heaven's     serenest 

smiles, 
Pure-hued,  and  calm  as  fairy  isles, 
Girt  by  the  tides  of  soundless  seas  — 
The  heavens'  benign  Hesperides. 

I  love  midsummer  uplands,  free 
To  the  bold  raids  of  breeze  and  bee, 
Where,     nested     warm     in     yellowing 

grass,    - 
I  hear  the  swift-winged  partridge  pass, 
With  whirr  and  boom  of  gusty  flight. 
Across  the  broad  heath's  treeless  height: 
Or,  just  where,  elbow-poised,  1  lift 
Above  the  wild  flower's  careless  drift 
My  half-closed  eyes,  I  see  and  hear 
The  blithe  field-sparrow  twittering  clear 
Quick  ditties  to  his  tiny  love; 
While,  from  afar,  the  timid  dove, 
With  faint,  voluptuous  murmur,  wakes 
The  silence  of  the  pastoral  brakes. 

Hove  midsummer  sunsets,  rolled 
Down  the  rich  west  in  waves  of  gold, 
With  blazing  crests  of  billowy  fire. 
But  when  those  crimson  floods  retire, 
In  noiseless  ebb,  slow-surging,  grand, 
By  pensive  twilight's  flickering  strand, 
In  gentler  mood  I  love  to  mark 
The  slow  gradations  of  the  dark; 
Till,  lo!  from  Orient's  mists  withdrawn, 
Hail!  to  the  moon's  resplendent  dawn; 
On  dusky  vale  and  haunted  plain 
Her  effluence  falls  like  balmy  rain; 
Gaunt  gulfs  of  shadow  own  her  might; 
She  bathes  the  rescued  world  in  light, 
So  that,  albeit  my  summer's  day, 
Erewhile  did  breathe  its  life  away, 


CLOUD-PICTURES. 


193 


Methinks,  whate'er  its  hours  had  won 
Of  beauty,  born  from  shade  and  sun, 
Hath  not  perchance  so  wholly  died, 
But  o'er  the  moonlight's  silvery  tide 
Comes  back,  sublimed  and  purified ! 


CLOUD-PICTURES. 

Here  in  these  mellow  grasses,  the  whole 

morn, 
I  love  to  rest;  yonder,  the  ripening  corn 
Eustles  its  greenery;  and  his  blithesome 

horn 

Windeth  the  frolic  breeze  o'er  field  and 

dell, 
Now  pealing  a  bold   stave  with    lusty 

swell, 
Now  falling  to  low  breaths  ineffable 

Of  whispered  joyance.  At  calm  length 
Hie, 

Fronting  the  broad  blue  spaces  of  the 
sky, 

Covered  with  cloud-groups,  softly  jour- 
neying by : 

An  hundred  shapes,  fantastic,  beau- 
teous, strange, 

Are  theirs,  as  o'er  yon  airy  waves  they 
range 

At  the  wind's  will,  from  marvellous 
change  to  change ; 

Castles,  with   guarded  roof,  and  turret 

tall, 
Great  sloping    archway,    and    majestic 

wall, 
Sapped  by  the  breezes  to  their  noiseless 

fall! 

Pagodas   vague!    above    whose    towers 

outstream 
Banners  that  wave  with  motions  of  a 

dream  — 
Kising,    or    drooping  in  the    noontide 

gleam ; 


Gray  lines  of  Orient  pilgrims:   a  gaunt 

band 
On  famished  camels,   o'er    the    desert 

sand 
Plodding  towards  their  prophet's  Holy 

Land ; 

'Mid-ocean, — and  a  shoal  of  whales  at 

play, 
Lifting  their  monstrous  frontlets  to  the 

day, 
Thro'    rainbow   arches  of    sun-smitten 

spray ; 

Followed    by    splintered    icebergs,  vast 

and  lone, 
Set    in    swift    currents   of   some   arctic 

zone, 
Like  fragments  of  a  Titan's  world  o'er- 

thrown ; 

Next,  measureless   breadths  of   barren, 

treeless  moor, 
Whose    vaporous    verge   fades  down    a 

glimmering  shore, 
Pound  which    the  foam-eapped  billows 

toss  and  roar ! 

Calms  of   bright  water  —  like  a  fairy's 

wiles, 
Wooing   with   ripply  cadence   and  soft 

smiles, 
The   golden  shore-slopes   of   Hesperian 

Isles ; 

Their  inland  plains  rife  with  a  rare  in- 
crease 

Of  plumed  grain!  and  many  a  snowy 
fleece 

Shining  athwart  the  dew-lit  hills  of 
peace ; 

Wrecks    of     gigantic     cities  —  to    the 

tune 
Of    some    wise    air-God    built!  —  o'er 

which  the  noon 
Seems  shuddering ;  caverns,  such  as  the 

wan  Moon 


194 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Shows  in  her  desolate  hosom;  then,  a 

crowd 
Of    awed    and    reverent    faces,    palely 

bowed 
O'er  a  dead    queen,   laid   in   her  ashy 

shroud  — 


A  queen   of  eld  —  her  pallid   brow  im- 

pearled 
By  gems  barbaric!  her  strange  beauty 

furled 
In    mystic    cerements    of    the    antique    !    Yon  clouds  are  big  with  flame,  and  not 


IN   THE   PINE   BARRENS. 

SUNSET. 

Hark  !  to  the  mournful  wind  ;  its  burden 
drear 
Borne  over  leagues  of  desert  wild  and 
dun, 
Sinks  to  a  weary  cadence  of  despair, 
Beyond  the   closing  gateways  of  the 
sun. 


world. 

Weird    pictures,   fancy-gendered !  —  one 

by  one, 
'Twixt  blended  beams  and  shadows,  gold 

and  dun, 
These  transient  visions  vanish  in   the 

sun. 


SONNET. 

Sunset,  the  god-like  artist,  paints  on  air 

Pictures  of  loveliness  and  terror  blent ! 

Lo !  yonder  clouds,  like  mountains  tem- 
pest-rent, 

Through  whose  abysmal  depths  the 
lightning's  glare 

Darts  from  wild  gulfs  and  caverns  of  de- 
spair : 

O'er  these  a  calm,  majestic  firmament. 

Flushed  with  rich  hues,  with  rainbow 
isles  besprent, 

Like  homes  of  peace  in  oceans  heavenly 
fair : 

But  still,  beyond,  one  lone  mysterious 

cloud. 
Steeped    in   the   solemn   sunset's    fiery 

mist, 
Strange  semblance  takes  of  Him  whose 

visage  bowed, 
Divinely  sweet,  o'er  all  things,  dark  or 

bright, 
Yet   draws    the   darkness    ever   toward 

His  light 
The    tender  eyes  and  awful    brow    of 

Christ! 


with  rain. 
Massed  on  the  marvellous  heaven  in 

splendid  pyres, 
Whereon  ethereal  genii,  half  in  pain 
And  half  in  triumph,  light  their  fervid 

fires : 

Kindled  in  funeral  majesty  to  rise 
Above  the  perished  day,  whose  latest 
breath 
Exhaled,  a  roseate  effluence  to  the  skies, 
Still   lingers    o'er    the    pageantry    of 
death. 

One  stalwart  hill  his  stern  defiant  crest 
Boldly  against  the  horizon   line  up- 
rears, 
His  blasted  pines,  smit  by  the  fiery  West, 
Uptowering  rank  on  rank,  like  Titan 
spears ; 

Fantastic,  bodeful,  o'er  the  rock-strewn 
ground 
Casting  grim  shades  beyond  the  hill 
slope  riven, 
Which  mock  the  loftier  shafts,  keen, 
lustre-crowned 
And  raised  as  if  to  storm  the  courts  of 
Heaven ! 

As  sinks  the  wind,  so  wane  those  won- 
drous lights ; 
Slowly  they  wane  from  hill  and  sky 
and  cloud, 
While  round  the  woodland  waste  and 
glimmering  heights 
The  mist  of  gloaming  trails  its  silvery 
shroud ! 


SONNET.— AFTER   THE    TORNADO. 


195 


Through    which,    uncertain,    vague    as 
shifting  ghosts, 
The  forms  of   all  things  touched  by 
mystery  seem, 
I  walk,   methinks,   on  pale   Plutonian 
coasts, 
And  grope  'mid  spectral  shadows  of  a 
dream. 


SONNET. 

In  the  deep  hollow  of  this  sheltered  dell 
I  hear  the  rude  winds  chant  their  giant 

staves 
Far,  far  beyond  me,  wdiere  in  darkening 

waves 
The  airy  seas  of  cloudland  sink  or  swell. 

Xo  faint  breeze   stirs  the  wild-flower's 

soundless  bell, 
Here   in   the  cpuiet  vale,   whose  rivulet 

laves 
Banks    silent    almost    as    those    desert 

graves, 
Whereof  the  worn   Zaharan  wanderers 

tell. 

Oh !  thus  from  out  still  depths  of  tran- 
quil doom, 

My  soul  beyond  her  views  life's  turmoil 
vast, 

Hearkening  the  windy  roar  and  rage  of 
men, 

Vain  to  her  eyes  as  shades  from  cloud- 
land  cast, 

And  to  her  ears  like  far-off  winds  that 
boom, 

Heard,  but  scarce  heard,  in  this  Arca- 
dian slen! 


THE    WOODLAND  PHASES. 

Yox  woodland,  like  a  human  mind. 

Hath    many    a    phase    of    dark    and 
bright; 
Now  dim  with  shadows,  wandering  blind, 

Xow  radiant  with  fair  shapes  of  light. 


They  softly  come,  they  softly  go, 
Capricious  as  the  vagrant  wind, 

Nature's   vague   thoughts   in   gloom   or 
glow, 
That  leave  no  airiest  trace  behind. 

Xo  trace,  no  trace !  yet  wherefore  thus 
Do  shade  and  beam  our  spirit's  stir? 

Ah!  Xature  may  be  cold  to  us, 

But  Ave  are  strangely  moved  by  her. 

The  wild  bird's  strain,  the  breezy  spray. 
Each    hour   with    sure   earth-changes 
rife 

Hint  more  than  all  the  sages  say, 
Or  poets  sing  of  death  and  life. 

For   truths  half   drawn  from  Xature' s 
breast. 
Through   subtlest  types  of  form  and 
tone, 
Outweigh    what    man,    at    most,   hath 
guessed 
While  heeding  his  own  heart  alone. 

And  midway,  betwixt  heaven  and  us, 
Stands  Xature  in  her  fadeless  grace, 

Still  pointing  to  our  Father's  house, 
His  glory  on  her  mystic  face. 


AFTER    THE    TORNADO. 

Last  eve  the  earth  was  calm,  the  heav- 
ens were  clear ; 

A  peaceful  glory  crowned  the  waning 
west, 

And  yonder  distant  mountain's  hoary 
crest 

The  semblance  of  a  silvery  robe  did 
wear, 

Shot  through  with  moon-wrought  tis- 
sues; far  and  near 

Wood,  rivulet,  field  —  all  Xature' s  face 
—  expressed 

The  haunting  presence  of  enchanted  rest. 

One  twilight  star  shone  like  a  blissful 
tear. 

Unshed.  But  now,  what  ravage  in  a 
ntelit ! 


196 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Yon  mountain  height  fades  in  its  cloud- 
girt  pall ; 

The  prostrate  wood  lies  smirched  with 
rain  and  mire ; 

Through  the  shorn  fields  the  brook 
whirls,  wild  and  white ; 

While  o'er  the  turbulent  waste  and 
woodland  fall, 

Glares  the  red  sunrise,  blurred  with 
mists  of  fire! 


IX   THE  BOWER. 

The  gusty  and  passionate  March  hath 

died ; 
And  now  in  the  golden  April-tide 
There  sits  in  the  shade  of  her  jasmine 

bower 
A  maid  more  fair  than  an  April  flower. 

The  delicate  curve  of  her  perfect  mouth, 
"Whose  tints  grow  warm  in   the  fervid 

South, 
She  stoops   to   press,  as   she  murmurs 

low, 
On  a  note  upraised  in  her  hand  of  snow. 

What  words  are  writ  on  the  tiny  scroll  ? 
What  thoughts  lie  deep  in  the  maiden's 

soul  ? 
Oh,  is  it  with  bliss  of  her  love  she  sighs? 
Is   the   light  but   love's   in    those    shy 

brown  eyes '? 

So  thinks  the  mock-bird  trilling  his  lay 
On  the  tremulous  top  of  the  lilac  spray; 
He  views  the  maid ,  on  his  perch  apart, 
And  his  song   is  meant  for  her  secret 
heart. 

So  thinks  the  breeze,  for  its  frolic  free 
With  the  rose's  stem,  and  the  wing  o' 

the  bee 
It  leaves,  to  sigh  in  the  maiden's  ear, 
"He    is    coming,   sweet!   he   is   almost 

here!" 

So  thinks  the  sun,  for  his  ardent  beams 
Grow  mellow   and    soft    as    a    virgin's 
dreams, 


Through  the  vine-leaf  shadows  steal  coy- 
ly down, 

And  she  wears  his  light  like  a  bridal 
crown. 

Let  the  songster  trill,   and  the  breezes 

sigh, 
And  the  sun  weave  crowns  of  his  light  i' 

the  sky; 
She  heeds  them  not,  for  a  step  is  heard, 
And  her  soul  leaps  up  like  a  startled 

bird  — 

Her  soul  leaps  up,  but  it  is  not  fear: 
He  is  coming,  sweet!  he  is  here!  is  here! 
And  she  flies  to  his  bosom,  (ah!  panting 

dove), 
And  is  folded  home  on  the  heart  of  love! 


Eerily  the  wind  doth  blow 
Through  the  woodland  hollow; 

Eerily  forlorn  and  low, 
Tremulous  echoes  follow ! 

Whence  the  low  wind's  tortured  plaint  ? 

Burden  hopeless,  dreary, 
As  the  anguished  tones  that  faint 

Down  the  Miserere. 

Whence  ?     From  far-off  seas  its  moan! 

Darksome  waves  and  lonely, 
Where  the  tempest,  overblown, 

Leaves  a  death-calm  only. 

Thence  it  caught  the  awful  cry 

Of  some  last  pale  swimmer, 
O'er  whose  drowning  brain  and  eye 

Life  grows  dim  and  dimmer  — 

Ere  the  billows  claim  their  prey, 

Settling  stern  and  lonely. 
Where  the  storm-clouds,  rolled  away, 

Leave  death-silence  only! 

So  with  pain  the  wind-heart  sighs; 

Through  its  sad  commotion 
Weary  sea-tides  sob,  and  rise 

Wailinir  hints  of  Ocean! 


SONNET. 


107 


Hist!  oh  hist!  as  spreads  the  mist, 
Wood  and  hill-slope  doming, 

By  no  grace  of  starlight  kissed, 
'Mid  the  shadowy  gloaming, 


Drearier  grows  the  wind,  more  drear 
Echoes  shuddering  follow, 

Till  a  place  of  doom  and  fear 
Seems  that  haunted  hollow! 


^-xts 


"  Uplift  and  bear  me  where  tlie  wild  flowers  grow, 
By  many  a  golden  dell-side,  sweet  and  low." 


8 ONSET. 


Enough,  this  glimpse  of  splendor  wed  to 

shame; 
Enough  this  gilded   misery,  this  hright 

woe. 
Pause,  genial  wind!   that  even  here  dost 

blow 
Thy  cheerful  clarion;     and   from    dust 

and  flame 
The  noonday  pest,  the  night-enshrouded 

blame. 
Uplift  and  bear  me  where  the  wild  flow- 
ers grow 
By  many  a  golden  dell-side  sweet  and 

low, 


Shrined  in  the  sylvan  Eden  whence  I 
came. 

O  woodland  water!  O  fair-whispering 
pine! 

Loved  of  the  dryad  none  but  I  have 
viewed ! 

O  dew-lit  glen,  and  lone  glade,  breathing 
balm. 

Receive  and  bless  me,  till  this  tumult 
rude 

Merged  in  your  verdant  solitudes  di- 
vine, 

My  soul  once  more  hath  found  her  an- 
cient calm! 


198 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


VIOLETS. 
"  Rare  wine  of  flowers."  —  Fletcher. 

A  gusty  wind  o'ersweeps   the  garden 
close, 

And,  where  the  jonquil,  with  the  white- 
rod  glows, 
Biots   like  some  rude  hoyden  uncon- 
trolled. 

But    hero,    where    sunshine    and     coy 
shadows  meet, 

Out  gleam  the   tender   eyes   of  violets 
sweet, 
Touched    by    the  vapory    noontide's 
fleeting  gold. 

What  subtlest  perfume  floats  serenely  up ! 
Ethereal  wine  that  brims  each  delicate 

cup, 
Rifled  by  viewless  Ariels  of  the  air. 
And  lo !  methinks  from  out  these  fairy 

flowers 
Bise  the  strange  shades  of  half  forgotten 

hours, 
Pale,     tearful,     mute,     and     yet,     O 

heaven,  how  fair! 

Yea,  fair  and  marvellous,  gliding  gently 
nigh. 

Some  with  raised  brows  and  eyes  of  con- 
stancy. 
Fixed  witli  fond  meanings  on  a  goal 
above. 

And  some  faint  shades  of  weary,  droop- 
ing grace, 

Each  with  a  nameless  pathos  on  its  face, 
Breathing    of    heart-break    and     sad 
death  of  love. 

Slowly  they  vanish!   while  these  odors 

steep 
Spirit  and  sense,  as  if  in  Avaves  of  sleep, 
Mysterious    and     Lethean ;      languid 

streams 
Flowing     through    realms    of     twilight 

thought  apart. 
Whereon   the   half-closed   petals  of  the 

heart 
Pulse    flower-like    o'er   a   whispering 

tide  of  dreams :  — 


Nor  wakes  the  soul  to  outward  sound  or 

sight, 
Till,    noonday  beams    declining,   warm 

and  light, 
A    wood-breeze    fans    the    dreamer's 

forehead  calm; 
Who  feels  as   one   long  wrapped  from 

pain  and  drouth, 
By  magic  dreams  dreamed  in  the  fervid 

south, 
Beneath   the   golden  shadows  of  the 

palm. 


BY  THE   GRAVE   OF  HENRY   TIMROD. 

When  last  we  parted  —  thy  frail  hand 
in  mine  — 
Above  us  smiled  September's  passion- 
less sky, 
And  touched  by  fragrant  airs,  the  hill- 
side pine 
Thrilled  in  the  mellow  sunshine  ten- 
derly ; 
So  rich  the  robe  on  nature's  slow  de- 
cay, 
We  scarce  could  deem   the   winter  tide 
was  near, 
Or  lurking  death,  masked  in  imperial 
grace ; 
Alas !  that  autumn  day 
Drew  not  more  close  to  winter's  empire 
drear 
Than  thou,   my  heart!  to  meet  grief 
face  to  face ! 

I    clasped     thy    tremulous    hand,    nor 
marked  how  weak 
Its  answering  grasp;  and  if  thine  eyes 
did  swim 
In  unshed  tears,  and  on  thy  fading  cheek 
Bested  a  nameless  shadow,  gaunt  and 
dim.  — 
My   soid   was   blind;   fear   had   not 
touched  her  sight 
To  awful  vision;  so,  I  bade  thee  go, 
Careless,  and   tranquil   as  that  treach- 
erous morn : 
Nor  dreamed  how  soon  the  blight 


BY  THE    GRAVE   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 


199 


Of  long-implanted  seeds  of  care  would 
throw 
Their    nightshade  flowers   above  the 
springing  corn. 

Since  then,  fidl  many  a  year  hath  risen 
and  set, 
With    spring-tide    showers,   and    au- 
tumn pomps  unfurled 
O'er  gorgeous  woods,  and  mountain  walls 
of  jet  — 
While  love  and  loss,  alternate,  ruled 
the  world; 
Till  now  once  more  we  meet  —  my 
friend  and  I  — 
Once  more,  once  more  —  and  thus,  alas ! 
we  meet  — 
Above,  a  rayless  heaven;  beneath,  a 
grave ; 
Oh,  Christ !  and  dost  thou  lie 
Neglected    here,    in    thy   worn    burial- 
sheet  ? 
Friend!    were   there  none    to    shield 
thee,  none  to  save  ? 

Ask  of  the  winter  winds  —  scarce  colder 
they 
Than  that  strange   land  —  thy  birth- 
place and  thy  tomb  : 
Ask  of  the  sombre  cloud-wracks  trooping 
gray, 
And  grim  as  hooded  ghosts  at  stroke 
of  doom; 
At   least,   the  winds,   though  chill, 
with  gentler  sweep 
Seem  circling  round  and  o'er  thy  place 
of  rest, 
While  the  sad   clouds,  as  clothed   in 
tenderer  guise, 
Do  lowly  bend,  and  weep 
O'er  the    dead    poet,  in    whose    living 
breast 
Dumb  nature    found    a  voice,     how 
sweet  and  wise ! 

Once  more  we  meet,    once  more  —  my 
friend  and  I  — 
But  ah!    his   hand  is  dust,  his    eyes 
are  dark ; 


Thy  merciless  weight,  thou  dread  mor- 
tality, 
From  out  his  heart  hath  crushed  the 
latest  spark 
Of  that  warm  life,  benignly  bright 
and  strong; 
Yet  no;  we  have  not  met  —  my  friend 
and  I  — 
Ashes  to  ashes  in  this  earthly  prison ! 
Are  these,  O  child  of  song, 
Thy  glorious  self,  heir  of  the  stars  and 

sky  ? 
Thou  art  not   here,  not   here,  for  thou 
hast  risen ! 

Death    gave  thee  wings,   and  lo!   thou 
hast  soared  above 
All    human   utterance  and   all    finite 
thought ; 
Pain  may  not  hound  thee  through  that 
realm  of  love, 
ISTor  grief,  wherewith  thy  mortal  days 
were  fraught. 
Load  thee  again  —  nor  vulture  want, 
that  fed 
Even  on  thy  heart's  blood,  wound  thee; 
idle,  then, 
Our   bitter  sorrowing;   what   though 
bleak  and  wild 
Rests  thine  uncrowned  head  ? 
Known  art  thou  now  to  angels  and  to 
men  — 
Heaven's    saint     and    earth's     brave 
singer  undefiled. 

Even  as  I  spake  in  broken  under-breath 

The   winds    drooped    lifeless;  faintly 

struggling  through 

The  heaven-bound  pall,  which  seemed  a 

pall  of  death, 

One  cordial  sunbeam  cleft  the  opening 

blue ; 
Swiftly  it  glanced,  and  settling,  softly 
shone 
O'er  the  grave's  head;  in  that  same  in- 
stant came 
From  the  near  copse  a  bird-song  half 
divine; 
"  Heart,"  said  I,  "  hush  thy  moan, 


'200 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


List  the  bird's  singing,  mark  the  heaven- 

ARIEL. 

born  flame, 
God-given  are  these  —  an  omen  and  a 

"  My  dainty  Ariel."  —Tempest. 

sign ! ' ' 

A  voice  like  the  murmur  of  doves, 

Soft  lightning  from  eyes  of  blue ; 

In  the  bird's  song  an  omen   his  must 

On  her  cheek  a  flush  like  love's 

live! 

First  delicate,  rosebud  hue; 

In  the  warm  glittering  of  that  golden 

beam, 

Bright  torrents  of  hazel  hair, 

A  sign  his  soul's  majestic  hopes  survive, 

Which,  glittering,  flow  and  float 

Raised  to    fruition    o'er   life's  weary 

O'er  the  swell  of  her  bosom  fair, 

dream. 

And    the    snows    of     her    matchless 

So  now  I  leave  him,   low,  yet,  rest- 

throat; 

ful  here; 

So  now  I  leave  him,  high-exalted,  far 

Lithe  limbs  of  a  life  so  fine, 

Beyond    all   memory  of  earth's  guilt 

That  their  rhythmical  motion  seems 

or  guile: 

But  a  part  of  the  grace  divine 

Hark!  tis  his  voice  of  cheer, 

Of  the  music  of  haunted  dreams ; 

Dropping,  methinks,  from   some    mys- 

terious star; 

Low  gurgling  laughter,  as  sweet 

His  face  I  see,   and   on   his  face  —  a 

As  the  swallow's  song  i'  the  South, 

smile ! 

And  a  ripple  of  dimples  that,  dancing, 

meet 

* 

By  the  curves  of  a  perfect  mouth ; 

SONNET. 

0  creature  of  light  and  air! 

As  one  who  strays  from  out  some  shad- 

0 fairy  sylph  o'  th'  sun! 

owy  glade, 

Hearts  whelmed  in  the  tidal  gold  of  her 

Fronting    a    lurid    noontide,  stern,    yet 

hair 

bright. 

Rejoice  to  be  so  undone ! 

O'er   mart  and    tower,  and    castellated 

height, 

Shrinks   slowly    backward,    dazed    and 
half  afraid  — 

SONNET. 

So  I,  whose  household  gods  their  stand 

The  glorious  star  of  morning  wrould  we 

have  made 

blame 

Far  from  the  populous  city's   life   and 

Because    it  burns  not    on  the    front 

light, 

of  night  ? 

Its  roar  of  traffic  and  its  stormy  might, 

Or  the  calm  evening  planet,  that  her 

Shrink  as  I  pass  beyond  my  woodland 
shade. 

light 
Foretells    not  sunrise,  with  its    herald- 

The  wordy  conflict,  the  tempestuous  din 

flame  ? 

Of  these  vast  capitals,  on  ear  and  brain 

All  things   that  are  should   subtly  own 

Beat  with  the  loud,  reiterated  swell 

the  same 

Of  one  fierce  strain  of  passion  and  of  sin, 

Eternal  law !  the  stars  shine  on  aright, 

Strange    as  in    nightmare    dreams    the 

Each  in  his  sphere ;  the  souls  of  Love 

mad  refrain 

and  Might 

Of  some  wild   chorus  of  the  vaults   of 

Their  separate  bounds  of  grace  or  grand- 

Hell. 

eur  claim; 

THE    CL  0  UD-STAR.  —  S  WEE  THE  A  RT,    GO  OD-B  YE. 


201 


Not  on  the  low  or  lofty,  great  or  small, 

Should  justice  fix  for  judgment;   the 
true  soul, 

Which  sways  its  own  world  in  serene 
control , 
Highest  or  humblest  —  such  the  Master's 
call 

Shall  summon  upward,  with  its  deep 
"  well  done," 

And  the  just  Father  crown  his   faith- 
fid  son ! 


THE   CLOUD-STAR. 
A   FABLE. 

Fak  up  within  the  tranquil  sky, 

Far  up  it  shone ; 
Floating,  how  gently,  silently, 

Floating  alone! 

A  sunbeam  touched  i's  loftier  side 

With  deepening  light : 
Then  to  its  inmost  soul  did  glide, 

Divinely  bright. 

The  cloud  transfigured  to  a  star, 

Thro'  all  its  frame 
Throbbed  in  the  fervent  heavens  afar, 

One  pulse  of  flame : 

One  pulse  of  flame,  which  inward  turned, 

And  slowly  fed 
On   its   own   heart,    that   burned,    and 
burned. 

'Till  almost  dead, 

The  cloud  still  imaged  as  a  star, 

Waned  up  the  sky; 
Waned  slowly,  pallid,  ghost-like,  far, 

Wholly  to  die; 

But  die  so  grandly  in  the  sun  — 

The  noonfire's  breath  — 
Methiuks  the  glorious  death  it  won, 

Life!  life!  not  death! 

Meanwhile  a  million  insect  things 

Crawl  on  below, 
And  gaudy  worms  on  fluttering  wings 

Flit  to  and  fro; 


Blind  to  that  cloud,  which  grown  a  star, 

Divinely  bright, 
Waned  in  the  deepening  heavens  afar, 

Till  — lost  in  light! 


S  WEE  THEAR  T,    GO  OD-B  YE .' 

A    SOXG. 

Swe  etheaet,  good-bye !  Our  varied  day 
Is  closing  into  twilight  gray, 
And  up  from  bare,  bleak  wastes  of  sea 
The  north-wind  rises  mournfully; 
A  solemn  prescience,  strangely  drear, 
Doth  haunt  the  shuddering  twilight  air; 
It  fills  the  earth,  it  chills  the  sky  — 
Sweetheart,  good-bye ! 

Sweetheart,    good-bye!     Our     joys    are 

passed, 
And  night  with  silence  comes  at  last; 
All  things  must  end,  yea,  —  even  love  — 
^vor  know  we,  if  reborn  above, 
The  heart-blooms  of  our  earthly  prime 
Shall  flower  beyond  these  bounds  of  time. 
'•  Ah!  death  alone  is  sure!  "     we  cry  — 
Sweetheart,  good-bye ! 

Sweetheart,    good-bye!     Through  mists 

and  tears 
Pass  the  pale  phantoms  of  our  years, 
Once  bright  with  spring,  or  subtly  strong 
When  summer's  noontide  thrilled  with 

song; 
Now  wan,  wild-eyed,  forlornly  bowed, 
Each  rayless  as  an  autumn  cloud 
Fading  on  dull  September's  sky  — 
Sweetheart,  good-bye ! 

Sweetheart,  good-bye !    The  vapors  rolled 
Athwart  yon  distant,  darkening  wold 
Are  types  of  what  our  world  doth  know 
Of  tenderest  loves  of  long  ago; 
And  thus,  when  all  is  done  and  said, 
Our  life  lived  oiit,  our  passion  dead, 
What  can  their  wavering  record  be 
But  tinted  mists  of  memory  *? 
Oh!  clasp  and  kiss  me  ere  we  die  — 
Sweetheart,  good-bye! 


202 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


SONNET. 

Big  with  the  wrath  of  tempests;  yet  his 

COMPOSED     ON    A   MARCH     MORNING     IN 

heart, 

THE    WOODS. 

Soft    as    the   inner  rose-leaves   of    the 

The  winds  are  loud  and  trumpet-clear 

spring, 

to-day; 

Rich  with  young  life,  and  love's  sweet 

They  seem  to  sound  an  onset,  half  in 

blossoming, 

ire, 

Too  soon,  alas!  from  life  and  love  did 

Half  in  the  wildness  of  a  vague  desire 

part : 

To  force  spring's  fairy  vanguard  to  de- 

Veiled  was   the  fate  that   smote  him; 

lay  ; 

unaware 

For  here,  methinks,  worn  winter  stands 

What  sudden,  blasting  doom  had  drawn 

at  bay, 

so  near, 

Yet  stands  how  vainly!  spring-time's 

A  strange  blight  breathed  upon  him.,  and 

subtlest  fire 

he  died! 

Melts  his  cold  heart  to  nothingness, 

while  nigher 

On  earth  to  die,  in  heaven  be  glorified. 

Draw  April  hosts,  and  rearward  powers 

Such  was  the  Minstrel's  portion;  still  he 

of  May  — 

went 

All  maiden  verdures,  concords  of  sweet 

Through  all  the  heavenly  courts  in  dis- 

air, 

content 

Stealing  as  dawn  steals  gently  on  the 

And   sombre   grief,    the   pathos  of    his 

world ; 

woe 

Breezes,  balm-laden,  blown  from  dis- 

Rising at  times  to  such  wild  overflow 

tant  seas, 

As    forced    its    wailful    utterance    into 

With  armies  of    blush-roses,  dew-im- 

song. 

pearled, 

That    passionate    rush    of    music,    the 

Till  Earth  reclaimed  from  winter's  grim 

heart's  wrong 

despair 

Set    to    the    sweetness    of    harmonious 

Blooms  as  once  bloomed  the  fair  Hes- 

chords. 

perides. 

The  All-Father,  Odin,  o'er  the  clash  of 

swords. 

And    din    of     heroes     feasting    at    the 

FRIDA   AND   HER   POET. 

boards 
Of    loud    Valhalla,    heard:    thereon   he 

A  brave  young  poet  born  in  days  of  Eld, 

sought 

Dwelt 'mid    the    frozen  Northlands;  he 

This  lonely  soul,  in  highest  heaven  o'er- 

beheld, 

fraught 

And  wondering,  sung  the  marvels  of  the 

With   mortal    memories.      "  Wherefore 

ice, 

lift' st  thou  here." 

The  swirl  of  snow-flakes,  and  the  quaint 

The  All-Father  asked,  '•these  measures 

device 

of  despair  ?  " 

Wrought  on  the  fir-trees  by  the  glittering 

'"Because  my  mortal    Love,"   the  Poet 

sleet ; 

said, 

And  loved  on  stormy  heights,  cloud-girt, 

"With  time  grows  gray  and  wrinkled; 

to  greet 

on  her  head, 

The  gray  ger-falcon  towering  o'er  the 

So  golden  bright  in  youth's  benignant 

sea; 

prime. 

To  watch  the  waves,  and  mark  the  cloud- 

Chill  frosts  of  age  have  left  their  hoary 

drifts  flee, 

rinie; 

Fit  ID  A   AND   HER   POET. 


203 


Her  eyes  are  dimmed,  her  soft  cheeks' 

Its  glow  could  fade,  he  trod  the  cottage 

rosy  red 

floor, 

Hath  with  the  flowers  of  many  a  spring- 

And saw  in  tattered  raiment,  wan  and 

time  fled ; 

dead, 

And  so  when  Heaven  shall  claim  her  — 

An     ancient     withered    woman    on    a 

ah !  the  pain !  — 

bed, 

I   shall    not   know    mine    earthly   love 

Of  whom  a  crone,  as  shrunk  almost  as 

again ! ' ' 

she, 

Said    with     drawn  lips    and     blinking 

To  whom  the  God,  "But  doth  she  love 

wearily 

thee  still?" 

"Lo!  here  thine  old  Love!     Hast  thou 

"Her  love,   like  mine,  nor  years,  nor 

come  so  far 

change  can  kill," 

To  find  how  cares  may  blight  us,  death 

The  Minstrel  answered:  "  Faith,  a  cease- 

may mar  ?  ' ' 

less  shower, 

As  ebbs  a  flood-tide,  so  his  eager  breath 

Keeps  fair  and  bright  our  love's  immac- 

Sank slowly.     "Oh,  the  awful  front  of 

ulate  flower." 

death!" 

'•I   loose  thy  heavenly  bonds,  —  I   bid 

He  moaned.     "  Yet  wherefore  shudder '? 

thee  go!" 

Thou,  my  love, 

The  All-Father   cried,    "and   seek  thy 

Art  precious  still;  nor  shalt  thou  move 

Love  below ! ' ' 

above, 

To  earth  he  came :  drear  waste  and  flow- 

An alien  soul,  albeit  no  longer  fleet, 

ery  lea 

Xor  fair,  thou  roam'st  through  Heaven 

Beheld  his  search  'mid  fettered  folk  and 

with  tottering  feet, 

free; 

Bent,  aged  form,  and  face  bedimmed  by 

Yet  all  his  toils  but  brought  the  direful 

tears ; 

stress 

I  only  ask  to  know  thee,  while  the  years 

Of  lone  heart-yearning,  grief  and  weari- 

Eternal roll ! " 

ness, 

Till  hope  died  out  and  all  his  soul  was 

He  bids  a  last  farewell 

dark. 

To  this  world's  life,  again  prepared  to 

dwell 

At  last,  when  aimless  as  an  autumn  leaf 

On  heights   celestial,    in   whose  golden 

Borne  on  Xovember's  idle  winds  afar, 

airs 

He  roamed  a  sea-beach  wild,  by  moon  or 

The  heart,  at  least,  shall  shed  earth's 

star 

wintry  cares, 

Unlighted  in  its  dreariest  hour  of  grief 

And  blooming,  breathe  the  vernal  heats 

And   desolate    longing,   on    his   eyes   a 

of  Heaven. 

spark 

Of  tiny  radiance  through   the   clouded 

Twice  ransomed  soul!   thou  spirit  that 

night 

hast  striven 

Flashed   from   a   cottage  window  on  a 

"With  countless  ills,  and   conquered  all 

height, 

thy  foes, 

Xext  the  dim  billows  of  the  moaning 

Rise  with   the  might  of  morning,   the 

main. 

repose 

Of  moonlit  night,  and  entering  Heaven 

There  broke  a  sudden  lightning  on  his 

once  more  — 

brain 

Behold !  who  first  doth  meet  thee  by  the 

Of  prescient  expectation,  — then,  before 

door, 

204 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


With  smiling  brow,  and  gently  parted 

lips, 
And  eyes  wherein  no  vestige  of  eclipse 
From  pain,  or  death,  or  any  evil  thing, 
Lies     darkly,     but    whose     passionate 

triumphing, 
In  peace  attained,  and  true  love  crowned 

at  last, 
Hath  such  rare  joy  and  sweetness  round 

her  cast, 
She  seems  an  angel  on  the  heights  of 

bliss. 
And  yet  a  mortal   maid  'twere  heaven 

to  kiss ! 

To  whom  the  singer,   in   a ,  voice  that 

seems 
Vague,  and  half-muffled  in  the  mist  of 

dreams :  — 
"  Art  thou  the  little  Frida  that  I  knew 
So   long  —  ah!   long  ago?     Thine   eyes 

are  blue, 
Deep  blue  like  hers,  and  brimmed  with 

t    tender  dew, 
Through  which  love's  starlight  smiles  — 

art  thou,  in  sooth, 
The   sweet,   true-hearted    Frida  of  my 

youth  ?" 

She  drew  more  closely  to  the  poet's  side, 
And  nestling  her  small    hand   in  his, 

replied. 
As    half    in    tremulous    wonder,    half 

delight :  — 
"  I  am  thy  little  Frida,  in  thy  sight 
Fair  once,  and  well  beloved  —  Ah  me! 

ah  me! 
Hast    thou    forgotten?"      "Nay;    but 

whose"  (quoth  he,) 
"Yon  withered  corse,  on  which  I  gazed 

below, 
With  pale  shrunk  limbs,  and  furrowed 

face  of  woe  ? 
Thy    corse,    thy    face,  they  told  me!" 

' '  Yea.  but  know, 
O  Love!  that  earth,  and  things  of  earth, 

are  past  : 
That  here,  where,  soul  to  soul,  we  meet 

at  last, 


The  merciful  gods  have  made  this  wise 

decree : — 
Love,  in  heaven's  tongue,  means  immor- 
tality 
Of  youth  and  joy  ;  then,  wheresoe'er  we 

go, 
Loving  and   loved  through   these   high 

courts  divine, 
Mine  eyes  eternal  youth  shall  drink  from 

thine ; 
And    thou   forevermore    shalt    find    in 

me 
The  tender  maid  who  walked  the  world 

with  thee, 
Thy  little  Frida,  loved  so  long  ago!" 


P ME EX IS  TENCE. 

While  sauntering  through  the  crowded 

street, 
Some  half-remembered  face  I  meet, 

Albeit  upon  no  mortal  shore 

That  face,  methinks,  hath  smiled  before. 

Lost  in  a  gay  and  festal  throng, 
I  tremble  at  some  tender  song  — 

Set  to  an  air  whose  golden  bars 
I  must  have  heard  in  other  stars. 

In  sacred  aisles  I  pause  to  share 
The  blessings  of  a  priestly  prayer  — 

When  the  whole  scene  which  greets  mine 

eyes 
In  some  strange  mode  I  recognize 

As  one  whose  every  mystic  part 
I  feel  prefigured  in  my  heart. 

At  sunset,  as  I  calmly  stand, 
A  stranger  on  an  alien  strand  — 

Familiar  as  my  childhood's  home 
Seems    the    long   stretch   of  wave  and 
foam. 

One  sails  toward  me  o'er  the  bay, 
And  what  he  comes  to  do  and  say 


SONNET.— A    THOUSAND    YEARS   FROM  NOW. 


205 


I  can  foretell.     A  prescient  lore 
Springs  from  some  life  outlived  of  yore. 

O  swift,  instinctive,  startling  gleams 
Of  deep  soul-knowledge !  not  as  dreams 

For  aye  ye  vaguely  dawn  and  die. 
But  oft  with  lightning  certainty 

Pierce  through  the  dark,  oblivious  brain, 
To    make    old  thoughts   and  memories 
plain  — 

Thoughts  which  perchance  must  travel 

back 
Across  the  wild,  bewildering  track 

Of  countless  aeons ;  memories  far. 
High-reaching  as  yon  pallid  star, 

Unknown,  scarce  seen,  whose  flickering 

grace 
Faints  on  the  outmost  rings  of  space ! 


SOXXET. 

TO  

Fair  Muse,  beloved  of  all,  thou  art  no 
high 

Imperious  goddess  of  the  mount  or 
main. 

But  a  sweet  maiden  of  the  pastoral 
plain. 

To  whom  the  hum  of  bees,  the  west 
wind's  sigh, 

The  lapse  of  waters  murmuring  tran- 
quilly. 

Come,  like  soft  music  of  a  May-tide 
dream. 

Yet,  times  there  are  when  some  imperial 
theme. 

Born  of  a  stormy  sunset's  marvellous 
sky, 

And  heralded  by  thunder  and  fierce 
flame. 

Sweeps  o'er  thy  vision  with  a  mien  sub- 
lime. 


And     mighty   voices,    calling    on    thy 

name : 
Then  dost  thou  rise,  exultant,  thrilled, 

inspired, 
Thy   song  a  clarion  lay  that  stirs  our 

time, 
Hot  from  the  soul  some  secret  god  hath 

tired ! 


A    THOUSAXD    YEARS  FROM  NOW. 

I  sat  within  my  tranquil  room ; 

The  twilight  shadows  sank  and  rose 
With  slowly  flickering  motions,  waved 

Grotesquely  through  the  dusk  repose; 
There  came  a  sudden  thought  to  me. 

Which  thrilled  the  spirit,  flushed  the 
brow  — 
A  dream  of  what  our  world  would  be 

A  thousand  years  from  now ! 

If  science  on  her  heavenward  search, 

Boiling  the  stellar  charts  apart, 
Or  delving  hour  by  hour  to  win 

The  secrets  of  earth's  inmost  heart  — 
If  that  her  future  apes  her  past, 

To  what  new  marvels  men  must  bow, 
Marvels  of  land,  and  air.  and  sea, 

A  thousand  years  from  now! 

If  empires  hold  their  wonted  course. 

And  blind  republics  will  not  stay 
To  count  the  cost  of  laws  which  lead 

Unerring  to  the  State's  decay  — 
What  changes  vast  of  realm  and  rule, 

The  low  upraised,  the  proud  laid  low, 
Shall  greet  the  unborn  ages  still. 

A  thousand  years  from  now ! 

Our  creeds  may  change  with  mellowed 
times 

Of  nobler  hope,  and  love  increased. 
And  some  new  Advent  flood  the  world 

In  glory  from  the  haunted  East  — 
While  souls  on  loftier  heights  of  faith 

May  mark  the  mystic  pathway  grow 
Clearer  between  their  stand  and  heaven's, 

A  thousand  years  from  now ! 


206 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


These  things  may   he!  but  what,  per- 
force, 
Must  with  the  ruthless  epochs  pass  ? 
The    millions'    breath,    the    centuries' 
pomp. 
Sure  as  the  wane  of  flowers  or  grass ; 
The  earth  so  rich  in  tombs  to-day, 
There  scarce  seems  space  for  death  to 
sow, 
Who,  who  shall  count  her   churchyard 
wealth 
A  thousand  years  from  now  ? 

And  we  —  poor  waifs!   whose   life-term 
seems, 

When  matched  with  after  and  before, 
Brief  as  a  summer  wind's,  or  wave's, 

Breaking  its  frail  heart  on  the  shore, 
We  —  human  toys  —  that  Fate  sets  up 

To  smite,  or  —  spare  I  marvel  how 
These  souls  shall  fare,  in  what  strange 
sphere, 

A  thousand  years  from  now  ? 

Too  vague,  too  faint  for  mortal  ken 

That  far,  phantasmal  future  lies; 
But  sweet!  one  sacred  truth  I  read, 

Just    kindling    in   your    tear-dimmed 
eyes, 
That  states  may  rise,  and  states  may  set, 

With  age  earth's  tottering  pillars  bow, 
But  hearts  like  ours  can  ne'er  foiget, 

And  though  we  know  not  where,  nor 
how, 
Our  conscious  love  shall  blossom  yet, 

A  thousand  years  from  now ! 


SONNET. 

I  stood  in  twilight  by  the  winter's  sea; 

The  spectral  tides  with  hollow,  hungry 
roar. 

Broke  massed  and  mighty  on  the  shrink- 
ing shore. 

The  sea-birds  wailed ;  the  foam  flew  wild 
and  free. 

Huthless  as  fate,  upborne  victoriously, 


A  fierce  wind  clove  the  billows  urged 
afar 

With  vengeful  rhythm  toward  the  west- 
ern star, 

Just  risen  beyond  a  gaunt  gray  cypress 
tree. 

Then  twilight  waned  in  cloud-descend- 
ing night, 

The  sole  star  died,  as  if  some  phantom 
hand 

Wiped  out  its  radiance;  in  the  void  pro- 
found 

The  wind  and  waters  (blended  in  one 
sound, 

Awful,  mysterious),  with  invisible  might 

Thrilled  the  blank  heavens,  and  smote 
the  affrighted  strand ! 


THUXDER    AT   MIDXIGHT. 

At    midnight    wakening,    through    my 

startled  brain 
The  sudden  thunder  crashed  a  chord  of 

pain ; 

I    rose,    and,    awe-struck,     hearkened. 

Overhead 
In  one  long,   loud,  reverberant  peal  of 

dread, 

Ceaseless  it  rolled,  till  as  a  sea  of  fire, 
The  climax  gained,  must  wave  by  wave 
retire; 

So,   half-reluctant,    up    the   heights    of 

space 
The  refluent  thunder  softened  into  grace, 

Its  deep,  harsh  menace  changed  to  mur- 
murs low 

As  the  lost  south  wind's,  muffled  in  the 
snow ; 

Waning  through  whisperous  echoes  less 

and  less 
Till  the  last  echo  sleeps  in  gentleness. 

Thus  'minded  am  I  of  that  law  of  old 
Which  down  the  slopes  of  awful  Sinai 
rolled, 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   CANON  KINGSLEY. 


207 


Smote  men  with  judgment  terrors;  yet, 

at  last, 
The  lightning  flame  and  mystic  tumult 

passed, 

Lapsed  down  the  ages,  echoing  less  and 
less 

Jehovah's  wrath,  till,  changed  to  tender- 
ness. 

The   vengeful  law,   which   once   man's 

faith  sufficed, 
Melts  into  mercy  on  the  heart  of  Christ ! 


OK  THE  DEATH  OF  CAXOX KIXGSLE  Y. 

Mortals  there  are  who  seem,  all  over, 

flame, 
Vitalized  radiance,  keen,   intense,   and 

high, 
Whose  souls,  like  planets  in  a  dominant 

sky. 
Burn  with  full  forces  of  eternity : 

Such  was  his  soul,  and  such  the  light 
which  came 

From  that  pure  heaven  he  lived  in;  ho- 
liest worth 

Of  will  and  work  was  his,  to  brighten 
earth, 

Heal  its  foul  wounds,  and  beautify  its 
dearth. 

He  dwelt  in  clear  white  purity  apart, 
Yet  walked  the  world ;  through  many  a 

sufferer's  door 
He      shone     like     morning;     comfort 

streamed  before 
His  footsteps;  on  the  feeble  and  the  poor 

He   lavished   the  rich  spikenard  of  his 

heart. 
Christ's  soldier!  To  his  trumpet-call  he 

sprung, 
Eager,  elate;  valiant  of  pen  and  tongue, 
Grand   were   the   words   he   spake,  the 

sonsjs  he  sunsr. 


Still,  hero-priest!    born  out  of  thy  due 

time  — 
Thou  shoukl'st  have  lived  when  on  thine 

England's  sod 
Giants  of  faith  and  seers  of  freedom  trod, 
Daring  all  things  to  break  the  oppressor's 

rod. 

Great  in  thine  own  age,  thou  hadst  been 
sublime 

In  theirs  —  that  age  of  fervent,  fruitful 
breath, 

When,  scorning  treachery,  and  defying 
death, 

Her  true  knights  girt  their  loved  Eliza- 
beth, 

Seeing  on  her  the  centuries'  hopes  were 

set; 
Then  hadst  thou  ranged  with  Raleigh 

land  and  sea, 
Bible  and  sword  in  hand,  gone  forth  with 

Leigh, 
The  tyrant  smote,  the  heathen  folk  made 

free ! 

Yea!  but  to  God  and  grace  thou  hast 
paid  thy  debt, 

In  measure  scarce  less  glorious  and  com- 
plete 

Than  theirs  who  bearded  on  his  chosen 
seat 

The  bloody  Antichrist;  or,  fleet  to  fleet, 

Thundered    through    storms   of   battle- 
wrack  and  fire 
At  Britain's  Salamis;*  the  heroic  strain 
Ban  purpling  all  thy  nature  like  a  vein 
Oped  from  God's  heart  to  thine;  the  lof- 
tiest plane 

Of  thought  and  action,  purpose  and  desire 

Thou  trod'st  on  triumphing;  thy  Vi- 
king's face 

Showed  granite-willed,  yet  softened  into 
grace 

By  effluence  of  good  deeds,  the  angelic 
race 

*  Alluding  to  the  defeat  of  the  "Invincible 
Armada." 


208 


LEGENDS   AND  LYRICS. 


Of   prayers  to    prompt,  and    aid    them! 

Fare  thee  well. 
Clear  spirit    and   strong!  thy   life-work 

nobly  done. 
Shines  beautiful  as  some  unsetting  sun 
O'er  arctic  summers;  chords  of  victory 

run 
Even  through  the  mournful  boom  of  thy 

deep  funeral  knell ! 


WHEN  ALL   HAS    BEEN  SAID  AXLJ 
DONE. 

TO   KICHAT.D   IIKXUY    STODDAKD. 

(Ln  reply  to  liis  poem  called  "  Wishing  and 
Having." 

'■  Perhaps  it  will  all  come  right  at  last  : 
It  may  he,  when  all  is  done, 
"We  shall  he  together  in  some  good  world, 
"Where  to  wish  and  to  Jiace  are  one." 

—  S  TODDAKD. 

O  Feiexd!  be  sure  that  a  spirit  came. 

In  the  gloom  of  your  saddened  hour. 
To  plant  that  hope  in  your  hopeless  heart. 

Like  the  seed  of  an  Eden  flower. 
The   seed  may   rest    in  your    brooding 
breast. 

Half  stifled  in  cold  and  night. 
Or  be  only  felt  as  a  yearning  dim 

Toward  comforting  peace  and  light : 
But  "twill  burst   some  day  into  perfect 
bloom, 

And  fruition  be  brightly  won; 
For  the  earth-life  fades  like  a  dream  o" 
the  dark 

When  all  has  been  said  and  done! 

The  earth-life  fades  in  its  sin  and  pain: 

But  whatever  of  sweet  and  pure 
Breathed  over  its  pallor  and  flushed  its 
gloom. 

Surviveth  for  evermore. 
O.  not  as  the  ghost  of  a  mortal  joy. 

But  as  Joy  herself  from  the  dead 
Upraised    to   the    clear,   calm  courts   of 
Heaven. 

With  a  halo  around  her  bead; 


"Tis  only  the  vile  and  the  sad  shall  die 
With  the  wane  of  an  earthly  sun. 

And  pass  like  a  vision  as  man  awakes 
When  all  has  been  said  and  done ! 

Do  you  think  you  have  lost  your  days 
for  aye 
In  the  heart  of  the  woods  of  spring. 
By  that   seaside  town  that   is  glimpsed 
through  mist. 
Like  the  white  of  a  petrel's  wing  ? 
J)t>  you  think  that  the  patter  of  tiny  feet 

Shall  never  come  back  again. 
And  that  those  whom  the  rage  of  Death 
had  killed 
Are  in  sooth  forever  slain  ? 
Look  up!    look  up!    as  the  hope  com- 
mands. 
From  the  ruth  of  the  angels  won: 
The  earth-woe  fades  like  a  dream  o*  the 
night. 
When  all  has  been  said  and  done! 

O  God.  we  wander  in  devious  ways. 

Till  the  end  comes,  stern  and  stark; 
"We  lift  our  voices  of  useless  wail 

From  the  depths  of  the  hollow  dark: 
Yet  the  Christ  is  there,   though  we  see 
him  not. 
But  only  when  sorrow  lowers 
Wildest,    we   feel  through    the    hollow 
dark 
A  strange,  warm  hand  in  ours: 
And  a  voice  is  heard  in  the  music  of 
heaven, 
Saying:     ■•Courage     and     hope.     O, 
son! " 
The  earth-woe  fades  like  a  dream  o"  the 
night, 
When  all  has  been  said  and  done ! 


THE    VISION  IX    THE    VALLEY. 

Amid  the  loveliest  of  all  lonely  vales. 
Couched  in  soft  silences  of  mountain 

calm. 
And  broadly  shadowed  both  by  pine 

an  1  palm, 


THE   ARCTIC    VISITATION. 


209 


O'er  which  a  tremulous  golden  vapor  sails 
Forever,   though  unbreathecl    on    by   a 
breeze 
Or  any  wind  of  heaven,  serenely  sleeps 
A  lucid  fountain,  from  whose  fathom- 
less deeps 
Come  murmurs  stranger  than  the  twi- 
light sea's. 

That  golden  vapor,  buoyed  without  a 
breath. 
Tints  to  its  own  fair  bloom  the  limpid 
tide, 
Through   which    erewhile    the    solemn 
vision  rose 
Of  a  calm  face,  benignly  glorified 
By  all  we  dream  or  yearn  for  of   pure 

rest, 
Profound,  Lethean,  passionless  repose. 
.Still  through  the  silence  mystic  mur- 
murs sighed, 
Fraught  with  far  meanings,  vague  and 
unexpressed, 
Till   at   the   last,   upbreathing,  weird 

and  near, 
The  voice  of  that  pale  phantom  thrilled 
mine  ear  — 
'■  Be] hold  the  face,  the  marvellous  face, 
of  Death!" 


THE   ARCTIC    VISITATTOX. 

Some  air-born  genius,  with  malignant 

mouth, 
Breathed  on  the  cold  clouds  of  an  Arctic 

zone — 
Which  o'er  long  wastes   of   shore  and 

ocean  blown 
Swept    threatening,    vast,    toward    the 

amazed  South: 

Over  the  land's  fair  form  at  first  there 

stole 
A  vanward  host   of   vapors,   wild  and 

white ; 
Then  loomed  the  main  cloud  cohorts, 

massed  in  might, 
Till  earth  lay  corpse-like,  reft  of  life  and 

soul; 


Death-wan  she   lay,   'neath  heavens  as 

cold  and  pale; 
All  nature  drooped  toward  darkness  and 

despair; 
The  dreary  woodlands,  and  the  ominous 

aii- 
Were  strangely  haunted  by  a  voice  of 

wail. 

The  woeful  sky  slow  passionless  tears  did 

weep, 
Each  shivering  rain-drop  frozen  ere  it  fell ; 
The  woodman's  axe  rang  like  a  muffled 

knell ; 
Faintly  the   echoes    answered,   fraught 

with  sleep. 

The  dawn  seemed  eve;  noon,  dawn 
eclipsed  of  grace ; 

The  evening,  night ;  and  tender  night  be- 
came 

A  formless  void,  through  which  no  starry 
flame 

Touched  the  veiled  splendor  of  her  sor- 
rowful face : 

Like  mourning  nuns,  sad-robed,  fune- 
real, bowed, 

Day  followed  day  ;  the  birds  their  qua- 
vering notes 

Piped  here  and  there  from  feeble,  quer- 
ulous throats. 

Fierce  cold  beneath  —  above,  one  riftless 
cloud 

Wrapped  the  mute  world  —  for  now  all 

winds  had  died  — 
And,  locked  in  ice,  the  fettered  forests 

gave 
Xo  sign  of  life:  as  silent  as  the  grave 
Gloomed  the  dim,  desolate  landscape  far 

and  wide. 

Gazing  on  these,  from  out  the  mist  one 
day 

I  saw,  a  shadow  on  the  shadowy  sky, 

What  seemed  a  phantom  bird,  that  fal- 
tering nigh, 

Perched  by  the  roof-tree  on  a  withered 
spray ; 


210 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


With    drooping    breast    he   stood,    and 

drooping  head ; 
This  fateful  time  had  wrought  the  min- 
strel wrong; 
Even  as  I  gazed,  our  southland  lord  of 

song- 
Dropped  through  the  blasted  branches, 
breathless,  dead! 

Yet  chillier  grew  the  gray,  world-haunt- 
ing shade. 

Through  which,  meth  ought,  quick, 
tremulous  wings  were  heard ; 

Was  it  the  ghost  of  that  heartbroken  bird 

Bound  for  a  land  where  sunlight  cannot 
fade  ? 


THE    WIND    OF  ONSET. 

With     potent    north  winds    rushing 
swiftly  down, 
Blended   in   glorious   chant,   on   yester- 
night 
Old  Winter  came  with  locks  and  beard 
of  white. 
The  hoarfrost  glittering  on  his  ancient 
crown : 

He  sent  his  icy  breathings  through  the 

pane, 
He  raved  and  rattled  at  the  close-shut 

doors, 
Then  waned  with  hollow  murmur  down 

the  moors, 
To  rise,  revive  and  sweep  the  world 

again. 

The  chorus  of  great  winds  which  gird 
him  round 
Hold  many  voices  —  the  deep  trumpet's 

swell, 
The  air  harp's  mournful  burden  of  fare- 
well, 
The   fife's  shrill   tones,  the  clarion's 
silvery  sound: 

But  o'er  the  roof-tree,  'round  the  gable 
rings 
Loudest  his  Mind  of  onset,  hour  by  hour, 


Till  a  new   sense   of   almost  rapturous 
power 
Comes  on  the  mighty  waftage  of  his 

wings ; 

Sense   of  fresh   hope  and   faith's  re- 
kindled glow, 
The  awakened    aim,   the   brain   drawn 

tense  and  high. 
To  shoot  its  fiery  thoughts  against  the 
sky, 
Like  arrows  launched  from  some  deft 
archer's  bow! 

All  latent  forces  of  our  being  start 
To  marshalled  order,  ranged   in  battle 

line, 
While  the  roused  life-blood  with  a  thrill 
divine 
Buns  tingling  thro'  the  chambers  of 
the  heart. 

Summer  is  rich  with  dreams  of  languid 
tone ; 
October    sunsets    feed     the    soul   with 

light; 
But  give  me  winter's  war  wind  in  his 
might, 
O'er  the  scourged  lands  and  turbulent 
oceans  blown. 


THE  VISIT  OF  MAHMOUD  BEN  SU- 
LEIM  TO   PARADISE. 

Beneath   the  shadow  of  a  breezeless 

palm 
Mahmoud  Ben  Suleim,  in  the  evening 

calm, 
Sat,  with  his  gravely  meditative  eyes 
Turned  on    the  waning  wonder  of   the 

skies; 
What  time  beside  him  paused  a  brother 

sage, 
Whose  flowing  locks,  like  his,  were  white 

with  age : 
His  gaze  a  half-veiled  fire,  seemed  sadly 

cast 
Inward,  to  scan  the  records  of  his  past  — 


VISIT  OF  MAIIMOUD   BEN  SULEIM  TO   PARADISE.  211 


Perchance  the  past  of  man  —  and  thence 

Which  in  the  long-gone  time  of  youth 

to  draw 

did  seem 

From  far  experience,  sanctified  by  awe 

To  rise  before  me  in  a  twilight  dream. 

Of  God's  mysterious  ways,  some  hint  to 

Methought  the  life  on  earth  had  passed 

tell 

away, 

"Who  of  the  dead  in  heaven  and  who  in 

That  near  me  spread  the  new,  immortal 

hell 

day 

Dwelt  now  in  endless   bliss  or  endless 

Of  Paradise ;  but  yet  mine  eyes  looked 

bale. 

back 

On  this  our  clouded  world,  and  marked 

Thus,   while  he  mused,  the  old  man's 

the  track 

face  grew  pale 

My  waning  life-course  still  left  glimmer- 

With stringent  memories ;  on  his  labor- 

ing there. 

ing  thought 

Behold!   all  dues  of  funeral  dole  and 

Vague  speculations,  dim   and  doubtful, 

prayer 

wrought 

Mine  heirs  had   paid  me;   through  the 

From  out  the  fragments  of  the  vanished 

cypress  gloom 

years. 

I    saw    the    glitter    of    my    new-made 

At  length  he  said  :  "  Ben  Suleim,  lend 

tomb, 

thine  ears 

Whereon    so   many  a  blazoned    virtue 

To  that  I  fain  would  ask  thee.     Thou 

shone, 

art  wise 

A  blush  seemed  gathering  o'er  the  har- 

In  sacred  lore,  in  pure  philosophies ; 

dened  stone, 

So  tell  me  now  thine  inmost  thought  of 

And   I,    albeit    a    spirit,    flushed   with 

heaven 

shame. 

And  heaven's  fair  habitants." 

Nathless,    just   then   to   Eden    gates    I 

came, 

"Whoe'er  hath  striven," 

And,  at  the  outmost  Avicket  thundering 

Ben  Suleim  answered,  "to  the  extremest 

loud, 

verge 

Summoned  full  soon  an  angel  from  the 

Of  spiritual  power,  across  death's  dreary 

cloud 

surge 

Which  girds  those  heavenly  portals,  blent 

Hath  passed  to  find  the  fathomless  peace 

with  mist 

of  God!" 

Of  shifting  rainbow  arcs  of  amethyst, 

Who,  somewhat  harshly  for  an   angel, 

"  Yea,"  quoth  the  other,  smiting  on  the 

said 

sod 

I  knocked    as  if  an  hundred  thousand 

His    staff     impatiently.     "I    know!   I 

dead, 

know! 

Not  one  poor  soul,  besieged  the  heavenly 

But  who  of  all  we  have  seen  or  loved 

door. 

below 

He  raised  his  luminous  hands,   which 

Think' st  thou  in  Aidenn?" 

hovered  o'er 

For  a  brief  moment,  like  a  flash  of  stars, 

Slowly  from  his  lips, 

The   sapphire  brilliance  of  the  circling 

Wrapped    by  the  smoke-wreaths   in   a 

bars, 

half-eclipse, 

Then   one  by  one  unclosed  them.     En- 

Ben Suleim' s  pipe  was  lowered:    "My 

tered  in 

friend,"  said  he, 

The  realm  celestial,  safe  from  pain  and 

"  Hark  to  this  vision  of  eternity, 

sin, 

212 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


I  stretched  at  ease,   with  shadows  cool 

All  erring   brethren!'     'True,'  the  an- 

and dim 

gel  cried; 

Floating  about  me,   thus  did   question 

'  But  Ibn   Becar,   down   to   the  day  he 

him : 

died, 

'  Fair  Seraph,  speak.     Is  not  this  land 

Kept  on  his  neighbor's  ways  so  keen  an 

divine, 

eye 

Eife    with    pure     souls,    once    faithful 

He  lost  at  length  his  own  straight  course 

friends  of  mine  ?  ' 

thereby  ; 

'  Nay !  be  content  if  wandering  here  and 

And   though   the   purblind    world   hath 

there, 

guessed  it  not, 

Thou  meet'st  a  few — none  in  the  loftiest 

He  bides  in  Fblis'  kingdom;  fierce  and 

sphere.' 

hot 

'  Where,   then,'  I   cried,  '  is    holy    Ibn 

The   waves   of    Hades   roll  above    him 

Becar  ? 

now.' 

If  not  the  highest  he,  surely  not  far 

Amazed,  I  bowed  my  head,  just  whisper- 

Beneath  the   highest  that   clear   spirit 

ing  low 

beams  ? ' 

An  'Allah  Kebur.'     Next:  'How  fares 

'  Ah !  thou  art  muffled   still  in  earthly 

it,  then,' 

dreams,' 

I  asked,   '  with  Hafiz,  the  wise   scribe, 

The  angel  answered.   'If  on  /mnthou'dst 

whose  pen 

call, 

Signed  many  a  deed  of  gift,  and  scored 

Pass  downward,  for  he's  not  in  Heaven 

his  name 

at  all ! ' 

High  on  the  roll  of  charitable  hearts  ? ' 

'  Dread  Allah !  can  it  be  ?    So  just  a  man 

Clear    came    the    answer:     "Mid     thy 

Walked  not,   methought,  the  streets  of 

public  marts 

Ispahan. 

No  soul  more  sordid  strove  with  heaven 

Morn   after  morn,   year  after  year  his 

to  drive 

feet, 

Its  wicked  bargains.     Largely  would  he 

Alike  in  summer's  bloom  and  winter's 

give 

sleet, 

To  general  charities:  but,  sooth  to  say, 

Bore  him  to  worship  in  the  sacred  place; 

Whene'er  he  'scaped  the  broad,  bright 

What  righteous  zeal  burned  hotly  in  his 

gaze  of  day, 

face ! 

He  stamped  with  cruel  heel  the  writhing 

And  when  inspired  his  heavenly  vows 

poor, 

he  made, 

Would   turn  the  perishing  beggar  from 

Or  'neath  the  innermost  mosque  devoutly 

his  door. 

prayed, 

And  wring  from  friendless  widows  the 

Why,  even  the   roaring  Dervish,   robed 

last  crust 

and  cowled, 

Saved    for  their   half-starved   children. 

Shrank  from  those  pious  lungs,  which 

God  is  just; 

almost  howled 

So  Hafiz  dwells  not  here.' 

Creation  deaf.  A  saint  we  deemed  him — 

one 

In  faltering  tone, 

Pure   as   the    snow,  yet   ardent   as   the 

As  dropped   from  one  who  deals  with 

sun, 

things  unknown, 

Who,  not  content  with  turning  toward 

I    questioned    next:    'Abdallah,    he    is 

the  light 

saved  '? ' 

His  own  blest  feet,  must  set  on  paths  of 

'Nay;  for,  albeit  with  seeming  truth  he 

right 

braved 

VISIT  OF  MAHMOUD   BEN   8ULEU1    TO   PARADISE.  '1Y6 


Temptation,  and  each  wise  and  sacred 

saw 
Wrought    from    the    precepts    of    our 

prophet's  law, 
Fell    soft  as    Hybla's   honey   from    his 

mouth, 
Yet  his  whole  nature   withered    in   the 

drouth 
Of     drear    hypocrisy.      By    stealth     he 

bought 
Strong  waters  of  the  Giaour,  and  nightly 

sought 
Oblivion    from    sweet    opiates    of    the 

South. 
Sickness  he  feigned,  to  gain  in  these  his 

cure ; 
And   once,   that  he  might  tipple  more 

and  more. 
Moved  to  a  province  rife  with  serpents 

dread. 
Because,   by   such   as    knew  his   wiles, 

'twas  said 
He  drank  the  poison  of  each  treacher- 
ous throat, 
To  seek  in  fiery  wine  an  antidote. 
Xathless,   a  serpent  slew  him,  and  his 

home 
Is  far  from  ours.' 

My  thoughts  began  to  roam 
Vaguely,  in  loose  disorder.     Yet  again : 
'  What  of  Kalkarri,   he  whose  songs  of 

pain 
And  joy  alike  forever  struck  the  key, 
The  under-note  of  golden  purity, 
Virtue  his  theme  and  heavenly  love  his 

muse  ? ' 
'  Thou  fool  and  blind !     Kalkarri  could 

not  choose 
But  sing  mellifluous  verses;  yet  in  him 
The  light  of  truth  was  always  blurred 

and  dim. 
A  tireless  trick  of  tinkling  rhymes  he 

had, 
And  naught  he  cared  what  spirit,  good 

or  bad, 
O'erruled  his  lay.    The  good,  perchance, 

■paid  best; 
Therefore  he  sang  of  heavenly  joy  and 

rest, 


But  sang  of  that  whereof  he  shall  not 
taste.' 

'  Just  Allah ! '  sighed  I,  '  see  what  barren 
waste 

Drinks  up  my  hopes.  Since  none  of  all 
I  named 

Here  for  the  sacred  roll  hath  Allah 
claimed, 

I  pray  thee  tell  me  whom  his  will  hath 
blessed.' 

'  Dost  thou  remember  Saadi  ? '  '  What, 
that  wretch 

Who  shod  the  Bactrian  camels  —  who 
would  fetch 

Strange  oaths  from  far  to  sow  our  whole- 
some air 

With  moral  poison  ?  '  'True,  the  man 
did  swear,' 

Confessed  the  Bright  One,  sadly.  '  Yet 
so  strong 

His  penitent  sorrow  o'er  the  hateful 
wrong 

Done  his  own  soul  and  Allah,  and  so 
rife 

With  tireless  effort  his  whole  earnest 
life 

To  smite  the  giant  tempters  in  his  soul, 

To  kill  them  outright,  or  with  firm  con- 
trol 

Hold  them  in  native  darkness  chained 
and  cowed  — 

At  last  he  conquered  and  our  Lord  al- 
lowed 

His  weaiy  soul  to  quaff  the  founts  of 
balm!' 

Amazement   held   me  dumb.       Within 

the  palm 
Waving  above,  just  then  a  whispering 

breeze 
Rose,  and  passed  up   the   long-ranked, 

radiant  trees 
Which  lined   the   hills  of  heaven.      It 

seemed  a  sigh 
Born  of  soft  Mercy's  immortality 
Wafted  toward  the  throne !    The  Bright 

One  then, 
Lifting    his    voice    harmonious,    spake 

asrain : 


214 


LEGENDS   AND    LYRICS. 


'  Ferdusi,   the   small   merchant  by   the 

quays 
Too  poor  to  give,  but  with  a  heart  as 

broad 
As  the  broad  sky,  reverent  of  faith  and 

God; 
Islal-ed-Din,  who,  though  he  could  not 

make 
The  commonest  prayer,  would  yet  ex- 
claim Amen! 
To  those  who  did,  so  warmly,  for  the 

sake 
Of  truth  and  fervent  worship,  all  might 

see 
His  generous  spirit's  large  sincerity  — 
Both  these  are  with  us,' 

•  But  Wassaf,'  said  I, 
The   blameless   teacher,  who   methinks 

came  nigh 
Virtue  as  pure  as  frail  humanity 
On   earth   may  compass?'      'Yea;    his 

soul  is  here, 
Btit  his  soul  wanders  in  the  humblest 

sphere. 
For,  mark  thee,  though  no  damning  sin 

did  stain 
This  Wassaf's  record,  still  in  blood  and 

brain 
So  weak  was  he,  his  pale  life-currents 

flowed 
So  like  dull  streamlets  through  a  wan 

abode 
Of  windless  deserts,  that   he  lived   and 

died 
Ne'er  by  a  sharp  temptation  terrified; 
And  if  his  course  the  Prophet's  law  ful- 
filled 
And  near  his  path  all  passionate  gusts 

were  stilled, 
What  credit  to  him  ?    His  to  coldly  live, 
Act,  fade  —  a  creature  tamely  negative. 
But  lo!  in  flaming  contrast  the  hot  stir 
Of  Agha's  fate  —  Agha,  the  flute  player, 
Glutton  on  earth,  wine-bibber,  and  the 

rest, 
He  still  is  held  in  heaven  a  nobler  guest 
Than  all  your  Wassafs  —  proper,  crime- 
less, cool. 
And  soulless,  almost,  as  a  stagnant  pool, 


For  Agha's  blood  a  furious  torrent  ran; 
Half    brutal    he,    half    tiger    and    half 

man, 
In  health  and  power,  the  body's  lustful 

force, 
Whose  strength  to  fetter  in  its  turbulent 

course 
Had  taxed  an  angel's  will.     His  nature 

sore 
Tormented  him;  yet  o'er  and  o'er  and 

o'er 
From  some  vast  fall  he  lifted  prayerful 

eyes, 
And   like  a  Titan  strove  to  storm  the 

skies, 
Which,    through   unequalled  strife  and 

travails  passed, 
His  hero-soul  hath  grandly  won  at  last ! 

No  more!   no  more!    the  glorious  pres- 
ence said. 
'  In  light  to  come  thy  knowledge  per- 
fected 
Shall  bloom  in  flower  and  fruit;  but,  Su- 

leim,  say, 
Hast  thou  beheld  the  swift  sky-rocket's 

ray 
Burn  up  the  heavens  ?    How  beautiful 

at  first 
Its  splendors  gleamed,  too  soon,  alas!  to 

burst 
And  die  in  outer  darkness !     Thus  it  is 
With  many  a  soul,  soaring,  men  dream, 

to  bliss. 
Awhile    they    mount,    clear,    dazzling, 

drunk  with  light, 
To  sink  in  ruin  and  the  desolate  night. 
Would' st  know  the  true  believer?    He 

is  one 
Whose  faith  in  deeds  shines  perfect  as 

the  sun. 
His  soul,  a  shaft  feathered  by  works  of 

(/race, 
Death,  the  grim  archer,  launches  forth 

in  space  ; 
It  cleaves  the  clouds,  o'ershoots  the  va- 

porous  wall 
That  loaves  'twixt  earth  and  heaven  its 

mystic  pall, 


MY  DAUGHTER.  — OUR   "HUMMING-BIRD. 


215 


To  Ihjht,  at  last,  unerring,  strong  and 

fleet, 
In  the  deep   calm  which  lies  at  Allah's 

feet!'  " 


MY  DAUGHTER. 

Thou  hast  thy  mother's  eyes,  my  child  — 
Her  deep  dark  eyes :  the  underlled 
Sweetness   which   breathes  around   her 

mouth, 
A  perfect  rosebud  of  the  south, 
And  the  broad  brow,  as  smooth  to-day 
As  when  on  life's  auspicious  May 
I  clasped  her  to  an  ardent  breast 
With  yearnings  of  divine  unrest. 

Thou  hast  thy  mother's  voice,  as  low 
And  soft  as  happy  winds  that  blow 
At  springtime  o'er  the  wild-bloom  beds, 
When  the  blue  harebells  lift  their  heads 
To  hearken  to  those  strains  of  peace, 
And  through  the  lustrous  day's  decease 
Drink  in  the  sunset-beams  that  float 
Downward  from  glittering  airs  remote. 

Thou  hast  thy  mother's  heart,  no  less 
Than  all  her  body's  loveliness  — 
A  heart  as  firmly  brave  and  true, 
O'er-brimming  now  with  morning  dew 
Of  hopeful  light  as  doth  a  flower ; 
Yet  strong  to  meet  misfortune's  hour, 
And  for  the  sake  of  loving  ruth 
Lie  down  and  perish  in  its  youth. 

Child !  child !  so  fair,  so  good  thou  art, 
Sometimes  an  awful  pang  my  heart 
Pierces  as  thus  I  gaze  on  thee. 
Too  rare  a  thing  thou  seem'st  to  be 
Long  in  this  barren  world  to  smile ; 
Methinks,  with  many  a  heavenly  wile, 
Unseen,  but  felt,  the  angels  stray 
Near  thee,  to  tempt  thy  soul  away. 

Oh!  heed  them  not.     Why  should  they 

cull 
My  one  sweet  blossom  ?     Heaven  is  full 


Of  just  such  spirits.     Leave  her  here, 
Kind  seraphs !  our  poor  joys  to  share, 
Our  griefs  to  brighten  by  her  love ; 
Pass  on  to  your  calm  homes  above, 
And  thus  in  mercy  spare  to  earth 
The  angel  of  my  heart  and  hearth. 

'Tis  strange,  but  yet  so  fresh  and  whole, 

So  radiant  in  my  brain  and  soul 

Doth  this  enchanting  image  dwell, 

This  pure,  unrivalled  miracle 

Of  maidenhood  and  modest  grace, 

I  vow  that  I  behold  her  face, 

Hear  her  low  tones,  and  mark  her  mien 

So  gentle,  virginal,  serene, 

Clearly,  as  if  her  voice  and  brow. 

In  softest  sooth,  beguiled  me  now ; 

As  if.  incarnate  and  benign. 

She  placed  her  little  hand  in  mine. 

And  her  long  midnight  tresses  rare 

Were   mingling  with   my  snow-touched 

hair. 
And  yet  she  only  lives  for  me 
In  golden  realms  of  fantasie, 
A  creature  born  of  air  and  beam. 
The  delicate  darling  of  a  dream. 


OUR  "HUMMING-BIRD." 

Air,  well  I  know  the  reason  why 
They  called  her  by  that  graceful  name : 
She  seems  a  creature  born  with  wings, 
O'er  which  a  rainbow  spirit  flings 
Fair  hues  of  softly  shifting  flame ; 
Light  is  she  as  the  changeful  air. 
Borne  on  gay  humors  everywhere. 

Bewi  tellingly. 

Her  soul  hath  seldom  breathed  a  sigh ; 
!N"o  hint  of  care  hath  ever  stirred 
Her  being;  sunshine  and  the  breeze 
Have  been  the  fairy  witnesses 
Of  all  those  joys  our  happy  bird 
Hath  from  the  golden  fountains  drawn 
Of  youth  unsullied  as  the  dawn , 

So  lavishly. 


216 


LEGENDS   AND   LYRICS. 


Full  many  a  flower,  just  hovering  nigh, 
In  life's  broad  garden,  rife  with  sweets, 
She  deftly  drains  of  nectar  dew; 
Then,  sylph-like,  sweeps  o'er  pathways 

new 
To  taste  some  balmier  bliss  she  meets; 
Now     flashing     fast     through     myrtle 

bowers, 
Now  clinging  to  red  lips  of  flowers, 
Capriciously. 

Forbear,  rash  heart!  forbear  to  try 
Our  bird  to  capture  with  your  wiles, 
For,  lo!  she  glimmers  like  a  beam 


Of  fancy,  on  from  dream  to  dream: 
Vain  are  a  lover's  tears  or  smiles 
To  check  her  flight  bewildering, 
To  tame  her  soul,  or  chain  her  wing 
Submissively. 

Nay !  let  the  dazzling  fairy  fly 
From  flower  to  flower,  so  gladly  whirled ; 
Cruel  it  were  her  matchless  light 
By  one  rude  touch  to  dim  or  blight, 
To  see  her  luminous  pinions  furled 
In  grosser  airs  than  those  which  stray 
Round  the  fresh  rosebuds  of  the  May, 
Deliciously. 


LATER    POEMS. 


LATER    POEMS 


OF   IMAGINATION,    SENTIMENT,   AND   DESCRIPTION. 


UNVEILED. 

I  cannot  tell  when  first  I  saw  her  face ; 
Was  it  athwart  a  sunset  on  the  sea, 
When  the  huge  billows  heaved  tumul- 
tuously, 
Or  in  the  quiet  of  some  woodland  place, 

Wrapped  by  the  shadowy  boon 
Of  breezeless  verdures  from  the  summer 
noon  ? 
Or  likelier  still,  in  a  rock-girdled  dell 
Between    vast  mountains,   while  the 

midnight  hour 
Blossomed  above  me  like  a  shining 
flower, 
Whose  star-wrought  petals  turned  the 

fields  of  space 
To  one  great  garden  of  mysterious  light  ? 

Yain !  vain !    I  cannot  tell 
When    first    the    beauty    and    majestic 

might 
Of  her  calm  presence,  bore  my  soul  apart 
From  all  low  issues  of  the  grovelling 

world ;  — 
About  me  their  own  peace  and  gran- 
deur furled,  — 
Filling  the  conscious  heart 
With  vague,  sweet  wisdom  drawn  from 
earth  or  sky,  — 
Secrets  that  glance  towards  eternity, 
Visions  divine,  and  thoughts  ineffable ! 

But  ever  since  that  immemorial  day, 
A  steadfast  flame  hath  burned  in  brain 

and  blood, 
Urging  me  onward    in   the   perilous 

search 


For  sacred  haunts  our  queenly  mother 
loves; 
By  fii  Id  and  flood, 
Thro'  nei ,  lboring  realms,  and   regions 

f.vaway, 
Have  I  not  followed,  followed  where  she 
led. 
Tracking  wild  rivers  to  their  fountain 
head. 
And   wilder    desert    spaces,    mournful, 

vast, 
Where  Nature,  fronting  her  inscrutable 
past, 
Holds  bleak  communion  only  with  the 

dead ; 
Yearning  meanwhile,  for  pinions  like 
a  dove's, 
To  waft  me  further  still, 
Beyond  the   compass  of  the  unwinged 

will; 
Yea;  waft  me    northward,  southward, 
east,  or  west, 
By    fabled    isles,    and    undiscovered 

lands, 
To  where  enthroned  upon  his  moun- 
tain-perch, 
The  sovereign  eagle  stands, 
Guarding  the  unfledged  eaglets  in  their 
nest, 
Above  the  thunders  of  the  sea  and 
storm  ? 

Oh !  sometimes  by  the  fire 
Of  holy  passion,  in  me,  all  subdued, 
And  melted  to  a  mortal  woman's  mood, 

Tender  and  warm,  — 
She,  from  her  goddess  height, 
In  gracious  answer  to  my  soul's  desire, 


220 


LATER   POEMS. 


Descending  softly,  lifts  her  Isis  veil, 
To  bend  on  me  the  untranslated  light 
Of  fathomless  eyes,  and  brow  divinely 

pale : 
She   lays   on   mine   her   firm,  immortal 

hand ; 
And  I,  encompassed  by  a  magical  mist, 
Feel  that  her  lips  have  kissed 
Mine  eyes  and  forehead ;  —  how  the  in- 
fluence fine 
Of    her   deep   life  runs   like   Arcadian 

wine 
Through  all  my  being!     How  a  moment 

pressed 
To  the  large   fountains  of  her  opulent 

breast, 
A  rapture  smites  me,  half  akin  to  pain ; 
A    sun-flash    quivering    through    white 

chords  of  rain ! 

Thenceforth,  I  walked 
The  earth  all-seeing;  —  not  her  stateliest 

forms 
Alone  engrossed  me,  nor  her  sounds  of 

power; 
Mountains  and  oceans,  and  the  rage  of 

storms; 
Fierce  cataracts  hurled  from  awful  steep 

to  steep, 
Or,  the  gray  water-spouts,  that  whirling 

tower 
Along  the  darkened  bosom  of  the  deep ; 
But  all  fair,  fairy  forms ;  all  vital  things, 
That    breathe    or    blossom    'midst   our 
bounteous  springs; 
In  sylvan  nooks  rejoicingly  I  met 
The  wild  rose  and  the  violet; 
On    dewy    hill-slopes   pausing,     fondly 
talked 
"With   the   coy  wind-flower,   and   the 

grasses  brown, 
That  in  a  subtle  language  of  their  own 
(Caught  from  the  spirits  of   the  wan- 
dering breeze), 
Quaintly  responded ;  while  the  heavens 
looked  down 
As  graciously  on  these 
Titan  in.    growths,     as     on     sublimer 
dia->03 


Of    century-moulded  continents,  that 

bemock 
Alike     the     earthquake's    and     the 

billows'  shock 
By  Orient  inlands    and    cold    ocean 

capes ! 

The  giant  constellations  rose  and  set: 
I   knew  them  all,  and  worshipped  all  I 

knew ; 
Yet,  from  their  empire  in  the  pregnant 
blue. 
Sweeping  from   planet-orbits  to  faint 

bars 
Of  nebulous  cloud,  beyond  the  range 

of  stars, 
I  turned  to  worship  with  a  heart  as 
true. 
Long  mosses  drooping  from  the  cypress- 
tree; 
The   virginal   vines    that    stretched   re- 
motely dim. 
From  forest  limb  to  limb; 
Network    of     golden     ferns,     whose 

tracery  weaves 
In  lingering  twilights  of  warm  August 
eves, 
Ethereal  frescoes,  pictures  fugitive, 
Drawn  on   the    flickering  anil     fair- 

foliaged  wall 
Of    the    dense  forest,   ere  the  night 
shades  fall: 
Rushes  rock-tangled,  whose  mixed  colors 

live 
In  the  pure  moisture   by  a    fountain's 
brim ; 
The  sylph-like  reeds,  wave-born,  that 

to  and  fro 
Move   ever    to   the   waters'   rhythmic 
flow, 
Blent  with  the   humming  of  the  wild- 
wood  bee, 
And  the  winds'  under  thrills  of  mystery : 
The  twinkling  "  ground-stars,"  full  of 
modest  cheer, 
Each  her  cerulean  cup 
In  humble  supplication  lifting  up, 
To  catch  whate'er  the  kindly  heavens 
may  give 


UNVEILED. 


221 


Of  flooded  sunshine,  or  celestial  dew, 
And    even    when,    self-poised    in   airy- 
grace, 
Their  phantom  lightness  stirs 
Through  glistening  shadows  of  a  secret 
place 
The  silvery-tinted  gossamers ; 
For  thus  hath  Nature  taught  amid  her 

All,  — 
The  complex  miracles  of  land  and  sea, 
And  infinite  marvels  of  the  infinite  air, 
No  life  is  trivial,  no  creation  small ! 


Ever  I  walk  the  earth, 
As  one  whose  spiritual  ear 
Is    strangely    purged    and    purified    to 

hear 
Its     multitudinous     voices;    from    the 

shore 
Whereon  the  savage  Arctic  surges  roar, 
And    the    stupendous    bass    of    choral 

waves 
Thunders  o'er  "'wandering  graves," 
From  warrior-winds  whose  viewless  co- 
horts charge 


'Have  I  not  followed,  followed  where  she  led, 
Tracking  wild  rivers  to  their  fountain  head." 


The  banded  mists  through  Cloudland's 
vaporous  dearth, 
Pealing  their  battle  bugles  round  the 
marge 
Of  dreary  fen  and  desolated  moor ; 
Down  to  the  ripple  of  shy  woodland  rills 
Chanting  their  delicate  treble  'mid  the 

hills, 
And  ancient  hollows  of  the  enchanted 

ground.  — 
I  pass  with  reverent  thought, 
Attuned  to  every  tiniest  trill  of  sound, 
Whether  by  brook  or  bird 
The  perfumed  air  be  stirred. 
But  most,  because  the  unwearied  strains 
are  fraught 


With  Nature's  freedom  in  her  happiest 

moods, 
I    love    the    mock-bird's,    and    brown 
thrush's  lay, 
The  melted  soul  of  May. 
Beneath  those  matchless  notes. 
From  jocund  hearts  upwelled  to  fervid 
throats, 
In  gushes  of  clear  harmony, 
I  seem,  oft-times  I  seem 
To  find  remoter  meanings ;  the  far  tone 
Of  ante-natal  music  faintly  blown 
From   out  the  misted  realms  of  mem- 
ory; 
The  pathos  and  the  passion  of  a  dream : 
Or,  broken  fugues  of  a  diviner  tongue 


222 


LATER  POEMS. 


That  e'er  hath  chanted,  since  our  earth 

was  young, 
And  o'er  her  peace-enamored  solitudes 
The  stars  of  morning  sung! 


MUSCADINES. 

Sober  September,   robed  in  gray  and 

dun, 
Smiled  from  the  forest  in  half-pensive 

wise ; 
A   misty  sweetness   shone   in   her  mild 

eyes. 
And  on  her  cheek  a  shy  flush  went  and 

came, 
As  flashing  warm  between 
The  autumnal   leaves   of   slowly   dying 

green, 
The  sovereign  sun 
Tenderly  kissed   her;   then  (in   ruthful 

mood 
For  the  vague  fears  of  modest  maiden- 
hood ) 
Behold  him  gently,  lovingly  retire; 
Beneath  the  foliaged  screen, 
Veiling  his  swift  desire  — 
Even   as   a  king,   wed    to  some   virgin 

queen, 
Might  doom  his  sight  to  blissful,  brief 

eclipse, 
After  his  tender  lips 
Had  touched    the    maiden's    trembling 

soul  to  flame. 

Through  shine  and  shade, 

Thoughtful   I  trod   the   tranquil  forest 
glade, 
Up-glancing  oft 

To  watch  the  rainless  cloudlets,  white 
and  soft, 

Sail  o'er  the  placid  ocean  of  the  sky. 

The  breeze  was  like  a  sleeping  infant's 
sigh, 

Measured  and  low,  or,  in  quick,  palpi- 
tant thrills 

An  instant    swept    the    sylvan    depths 
apart 


To  pass  and  die 
Far   off,   far  off,   within   the    shrouded 
heart 
Of  immemorial  hills, 

Through  shade  and  shine 
I  wandered,  as  one  wanders  in  a  dream, 
Till,  near  the   borders   of  a  beauteous 
stream 
O'erhung  by  flower  and  vine, 
I  pushed  the  dense,  perplexing  boughs 
aside. 
To  mark  the  temperate  tide 
Purpled  by  shadows  of  the  Muscadine. 

Beclining  there  at  languid  length  I  sank, 
One  idle  hand  outstretched  beyond  the 

bank. 
With  careless  grasp 
The  sumptuous    globes    of    these    rare 

grapes  to  clasp. 
Ah !   how  the  ripened  wild  fruit  of  the 

South 
Melted  upon  my  mouth ! 
Its  magic  juices  through  each  captured 

vein 
Rose  to  the  yielding  brain, 
Till,  like  the  hero  of  an  old  romance, 
Caught  by  the  fays,   my  spirit  lapsed 

away, 
Lost  to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  mortal 

day. 

Lost  to  all  earthly  sights   and  sounds 
was  I, 
But  blithesomely, 
As   stirred  by  some  new  being's  won- 
drous dawn, 
I  heard  about  me,  swift  though  gently 

drawn. 
The  footsteps  of  light  creatures  on  the 

grass. 
Mine  eyelids  seemed  to  open,  and  I  saw, 
With  joyance  checked  by  awe, 
A  multitudinous  company 
Of  such  strange  forms  and  faces,  quaint, 
or  bright 
With  true  Elysian  light, 
As  once  in  fairy  fantasies  of  eld 


MUSCADINES. 


223 


High-hearted  poets  through  the  wilds 

With  lithe,  free  limbs  of  curvature  di- 

beheld 

vine, 

Of  shadowy  dales  and  lone  sea  beaches 

And  dazzling  bosoms  of  unveiled  glow, 

pass, 

Save  where   the   long,   ethereal   tresses 

At  spring-tide   morn   or  holy  hush   of 

stray 

night. 

Across  their  unimaginable  snow. 

Then  to  an  airy  measure, 

One  after  one, 

Low  as  the  sea  winds  when  the  night  at 

By  sun-rays   kissed   or   fugitive   shades 

noon 

o'errun, 

Clasps    the   frail    beauty   of    an   April 

All  vision-like  they  passed  me.     First 

moon, 

there  came 

Through   woven  paces    at    soft-circling 

A  Dryad  coy,  her  sweet  head  bowed  in 

leisure, 

shame, 

They  glided  with  elusive  grace  adown 

And  o'er  her  neck  and  half-averted  face 

The  forest   coverts  —  all   live  woodland 

The  faintest  delicate  trace 

things, 

Of  the  charmed  life-blood  pulsing  softly 

Black-eyed  or  brown. 

pure. 

Firm-footed  or  up-poised  on   changeful 

Next,  with  bold  footsteps,  sure, 

wings, 

And  proudly  set,  from  her  untrammelled 

Glinting  about  them  'mid  the  indolent 

hills, 

motion 

Fair-haired,   blue-eyed,  upon   her  lofty 

Of  billowy  verdures  rippling  slow 

head 

As  the  long,  languid  underflow 

A  fragrant  crown  of  leaves,  purple  and 

Of  some  star-tranced,  voluptuous  South- 

red, 

ern  ocean. 

Chanting  a  lay  clear  as  the  mountain  rills, 

A  frank-faced  Oread  turned  on  me 

The    circle    widened,    and     as     flower- 

Her  cloudless  glances,  laughter-lit  and 

wrought  bands, 

free 

Stretched  by  incautious  hands, 

As  the  large  gestures  and  the  liberal  air 

Break  in  the  midst  with  noiseless  wrench 

With  which  I  viewed  her  fare 

asunder. 

Down  the  lone  valley  land,  — 

So  brake  the  dancers  now  to   form   in 

Pausing    betimes    to    wave    her    happy 

line 

hand 

Down  the  deep  glade  —  above  the  shift- 

As in  farewell ;  but  ere  her  presence  died 

ing  lights, 

Wholly  away, 

Through  massive  tree-boles,  on  majestic 

Her  voice  of  golden  swell 

heights ; 

Breathed  also  a  farewell. 

The  blossoming  turf  thereunder, 

Farewell,  farewell,   the    sylvan    ecboes 

Whence,  fair  and  fine, 

sighed, 

Twinkling  like   stars  that  hasten  to  be 

From  rock-bound   summit  to  rich  blos- 

drawn 

soming  bay  — 

Close  to  the  breast  of  dawn, 

Farewell,  farewell ! 

Shone,   with    their  blue  veins   pulsing 

fleet, 

Fauns ,  satyrs  flitted  past  me  —  the  whole 

Innumerable  feet, 

race 

White  as   the   splendors   of    the  milky 

Of  woodland  births  uncouth  — 

way, 

Until  I  seemed,  in  sooth, 

Yet  rosy  warm  as  opening  tropic  day, 

Far  from  the  garish  track 

224 


LATER    POEMS. 


Of  these  loud  days  to  have  wandered, 

joyful,  hack 
Along  the  paths,  beneath  the  crystal  sky 

Of  long,  long-perished  Arcady. 
But  last  of  all,  rilling  the  haunted  space 
With  odors  of  the  flower-enamored  tide, 
Whose  wavelets   love   through   many  a 

secret  place 
Of  the  deep  dell  and  breezeless  bosk  to 

glide, 
Stole  by,  lightsome  and  slim 
As  Dian*s   self   in   each   swift,  sinuous 

limb. 
Her  arms  outstretched,  as  if   in  act  to 

swim 
The  air,  as  erst  the  waters  of  her  home, 
A  naiad,  sparkling  as  the  fleekless  foam 
Of  the  cool  fountain-head  whereby  she 

dwells. 

O'er  her  sloped  shoulders  and  the  pure 
pink  bud 

Of  either  virginal  breast  is  richly  rolled 
(O  rare,  miraculous  flood!) 

The   torrent   of   her  freed   locks'  shim- 
mering gold. 

Through  which  the  gleams  of  rainbow- 
colored  shells. 

And  pearls  of  moon-like  radiance  flash 
and  float 
Round  her  immaculate  throat. 

Clothed  in  her  beauty  only  wandered  she, 
'Mid  the  moist  herbage  to  the  streamlet's 

edge, 
Where,  girt  by  silvery  rushes  and  brown 

sedge. 
She  faded  slowly,  slowly,  as  a  star 
Fades  in   the  gloaming,   on  the  bosom 

1)0  wed 
Of  some  half-luminous  cloud, 
Above  the  wan,  waste  waters  of  the  sea. 

Then,  sense  and  spirit  fading  inward  too, 
I  slept  oblivious;  through  the  dim,  dumb 

hours. 
Safely  cncouched  on  autumn  leaves  and 

dowers. 
I  slept  as  sleep  the  unperturbed  dead. 


At  length  the  wind  of  evening,  keenly 

chill, 
Swept  round  the  darkening  hill ; 
Then  throbbed  the  rush  of  hurried  wings 

o'erhead, 
Blent  with  aerial  murmurs  of  the  pine, 
Just  whispering  twilight.     On  my  brow 

the  dew 
Dropped  softly,  and  I  woke  to  all  the  low, 
Strange  sounds   of   twilight  woods  that 

come  and  go 
So  fitfully;  and  o'er  the  sun's  decline, 
Through  the  green  foliage  flickering  high, 

Beheld,  with  dreamy  eye, 
Sweet  Venus  glittering  in  the  stainless 

bine. 

Thus  the  day  closed  whereon  I  drank  the 

wine  — 
The  liquid  magic  of  the  Muscadine. 


IN  A    SPUING   GARDE X. 

When  Heaven  was  stormy,  Earth  wras 
cold. 
And  sunlight  shunned  the  wold  and 
wave.  — 
Thought   burrowed    in   the   churchyard 
mould. 
And  fed   on  dreams  that  haunt   the 
grave : — 

But  now  that  Heaven  is  freed  from  strife, 
And  Earth's  full  heart  with  rapture 
swells, 

Thought  soars  the  realms  of  endless  life 
Above  the  shining  asphodels! 

What  flower  that  drinks  the  south  wind's 
breath. 

What  sparkling  leaf,  what  Hebe-Morn, 
But  flouts  the  sullen  graybeard,  Death, 

And  laughs  our  Arctic  doubts  to  scorn  ? 

Pale  scientist !  scant  of  healthful  blood, 
Your  ghostly  tomes,  one  moment, 
close; 

Pluck  freshness  with  a  spring-time  bud, 
Find  wisdom  in  the  opening  rose: 


STORM-FBA  G  ME  NTS. 


'225 


From  toil  which, blindly  delving,  gropes 
When  time  but  plays  a  juggler's  part, 

Ah  go !  and  breathe  the  dew-lit  hopes 
That  cluster  round  a  violet's  heart: 

Mark  the  white  lily  whose  sweet  core 
Hath  many  a  wild-bee  swarm  enticed, 

And  draw  therefrom  a  honeyed  lore 
Pure  as  the  tender  creed  of  Christ : 

Yea !  even  the  weed  which  upward  holds 
Its  tiny  ear,  past  bower  and  lawn, 

A  lovelier  faith  than  yours  enfolds, 
Caught  from  the   whispering  lips  of 
dawn ! 


IN  DEGREE. 

Thy   life  is  full  of    motion,   perfume, 

grace ; 
Mine,  a  low  blossom  in  a  shaded  place. 
Whereto  the  zephyrs  whisper,  only  they, 
Through  the  long  lapses   of  the  lone- 
some day. 

Thy  lordly  genius  blooms  for  all  to  see 
On  the  clear  heights  of  calm  supremacy; 
My  humbler  dower  they  only  find  who 

pass 
With  eyes  that  seek  for  violets  mid  the 

grass. 


THE  SKELETON   WITS  ESS. 

Rooted  in  soil  dull  as  a  dead  man's  eye, 
Dank  with  decay,  yon  ghastly  oak  as- 
pires, 
As  if  in  mockery,  to  the  alien  sky. 
Frowning  afar  through  clouded  sunset 
fires. 

No  garb  of  summer  greenery  girds  it  now : 

Stripped     as     some     naked     soul    at 

Judgment-morn, 

It  rears  its  blasted  arms,  its  sullen  brow, 

Defiant  still,  though  wasted,  scarred, 

forlorn ! 


Not  all  its  ruin  came  through  storm  or 
time ; 
Ages    ago,     'mid    winter's    dreariest 
blight, 
It  saw   and  strove  to  shroud  an  awful 
crime, 
But  slowly  withered  from  that  fateful 
night ! 

An  evil  charm  its  many-centuried  rings 
Robbed  of  their  pith;  no  more  with 
healthful  start 
Its  lusty  life-sap,  nursed  by  countless 
springs, 
Coursed     through    great    veins,    and 
warmed  its  giant  heart. 

Now  all  men  shun  the  gaunt  accursed 
thing  — 
Only    the    raven     with    monotonous 
croak, 
Tortures  the  silence,  staining  with  black 
wing 
The  leprous  whiteness  of  the  rotting 
oak! 


5  TORM-FRA  GMENTS. 

The   storm  had   raved  its  furious  soul 

away ; 
O'er  its   wild   ruins  Twilight,  spectral, 

gray, 

Stole  like  a  nun,  'midst  wounded  men 
and  slain, 

Walking  the  bounds  of  some  fierce  battle- 
plain. 

The  ghost  of  thunder  muttered  faintly 

by; 
While  down  the  uttermost  spaces  of  the 

sky, 

Just  where  the  sunset's  glimmering  verge 
grew  pale, 

The  bailled  winds  outbreathed  their  dy- 
ing; wail ! 


•226 


LATER   POEMS. 


The  sombre  clouds  that  thronged  a  shad- 
owy west 

Writhed,  as  if  tortured  monsters  of  un- 
rest, 

Whose  depths  the  keen  sheet-lightnings 

rent  apart, 
To  show  what  fiery  torment  throbbed  at 

heart! 

Where  raged  of  late  the  war  of  elements 

dread. 
Brooded  a  solemn  silence  overhead, 

Through  which,  beyond  the  cloud-strewn, 

heavenly  field, 
The  moon   shone   gory   as   a  warrior's 

shield, 

Dipped  in-  the  veins  of  many  a  van- 
quished foe; 

Blood-red,  I  marked  the  wandering  va- 
pors flow 

Vaguely    about    her,    while    her    lurid 

light 
Scared  the  vague  vanguard  of  the  shades 

of  night; 

Their  banded  hosts  retreating,  wild  and 

dim, 
In  shattered  cohorts  o'er  the  horizon's 

rim : 

Yet,  the  broad  empire  of  those  baleful 

beams 
Heaved  with  strange  shapes  and  hues  of 

nightmare  dreams ! 

Here,   as    from    cloud-born    Himalayas 

rolled, 
I  saw  what  seemed  a  cataract's  rush  of 

gold, 

Hurled  between  shores  of  darkness,  dense 

and  dire, 
Down  to  a  seething  mountain-lake  of  fire ; 

There,  dismal  catacombs,  whose  nether 

glooms 
Yawned,  to  reveal  their  loathsome  place 

of  tombs: 


Caverns  of  mystic  depth,  whence  bub- 
bling came 

The  blue-tinged  horror  of  sulphureous 
flame ; 

Fragments  of  castles,  with  fresh  blood 
besprent, 

Gaunt,  ruined  tower,  and  blasted  battle- 
ment — 

On  which,  flame-clad,  and  tottering  to 

their  fall, 
Dark  eyes  of  frenzy  flashed  o'er  cope  and 

wall! 

With  awful  ocean-spaces,  limitless,  grand. 
Where  spectral  billows  lashed  a  viewless 
land; 

Their  mountainous    floods   a   frowning 

zenith  kissed, 
But  glimpsed,  at  times,  'twixt  folds  of 

phantom-mist, 

I  viewed,  as  faintly  touched  by  muffled 
stars, 

The  semblance  of  dead  forms,  on  ship- 
wrecked spars 

Whirled  upward,  and  dead  faces,  a  white 

spume 
Smote  to  false  life  against  that  turbulent 

gloom, 

Where  mournful  birds,  on  pinions  gray 
or  dun, 

Circled,  methought,  o'er  some  half-per- 
ished sun, 

Whose  feeble  lustre,  faltering  upward. 

flings 
A  sad-hued  radiance  round  their  pallid 

wings; 

Yea!    all    fantastic    shapes    of    terror, 

wrought 
'Twixt  errant  fancy  and  dream-haunted 

thought, 

Until  I  seemed  with  Dante's  soul  to  fly, 
Through  new  Infernos,  shifted  to  —  the 
skv! 


UNDERGROUND  —  A   FANTASY. 


227 


ABOVE    THE  STORM. 

And  the  flame  of  its  lightnings  can  bide 

no  longer, 

The  winds  of  the  winter  have  breathed 

Ensheathed  at  the  core  of  a  clouded 

their  dirges 

life; 

Far  over  the  wood  and  the  leaf-strown 

And  its  pent-up  thunders,  unloosed  at 

plain ; 

last, 

They  have  passed,  forlorn,  by  the  moun- 

Keep time  to  the  rhythmic  rage  of  the 

tain  verges 

blast, 

Down  to  the  shores  of  the  moaning 

For  my  spirit,  half-maddened  by  Fates 

main ; 

that  wrong  her, 

And  the  breast  of  the  smitten  sea  divides, 

Is   shaken   by  passion,  and  hot  with 

Till  the  voice  of  winds  and  the  voice  of 

strife ! 

tides 

Seem  blent  with  the  roar  of  the  central 

Ah,  God!   for  the   wings   of  the   eagle 

surges, 

above  me, 

Whose  fruitless  furrows  are  sown  with 

With  their  steadfast  vigor  and  royal 

rain. 

might ; 

Ah,  God!  for  an  impulse  like  theirs  to 

The  pines  look  down,  and  their  branches 

move  me 

shiver 

In  endless  courses  of  upward  flight ; 

On  the  misty  slopes  of  the  mountain 

The    clouds    may    billow,     the    vapors 

wall. 

heave, 

And  I  hear  the  shout  of  a  mountain  river 

But  still  his  pinions  the  darkness  cleave; 

Through  the  gloom   of    the    ghostly 

And    proudly   serene,   in    those   realms 

gorges  call; 

above  me 

While  from  drifting  depths  of  the  troub- 

He is  soaring  from  conquered  height  to 

led  sky 

height : 

Outringeth  the  eagle's  wild  reply, 

So  shrill  that  the  startled  echoes  quiver; 

Till  at  length,  his  great,  broad  vans  at 

And  the  veil  of  the  tempest  is  over  all. 

even 

And  stately  poise  on  the  airy  stream, 

0  groaning  forest !    0  wind  that  rushes 

I  mark,  through  the  rifts  of  the  turbid 

Unfettered  and  fierce  as  a  doom  malign ! 

heaven 

How  the  pulses  leap,  how  the  heart-tide 

His   form   outflashed   like   a   winged 

flushes 

beam ; 

The  temples  and  brow  like  the  flush 

And  I  ask,  "  Shall  my  spirit  soar  like  his? 

of  wine, 

Shall  it  ever  soar  in  the  peace  and  bliss 

As  I  pause,  as  I  hearken  the  vast  com- 

Of the   shining  heights   and   the  glory 

motion 

given 

Of  the  air,  of  the  earth,  of  the  wakened 

To  the  will  unvanquished,  the  faith 

ocean ; 

supreme?" 

And  my  soul  goes  forth  with  the  storm 

that  crushes, 

° 

With  the  battling  foam  and  the  blind- 

UXDERGRO VXD  —  A   FAXTAS  T. 

ing  brine. 

Majestic  dreams  of  heavenly  calms, 

Tea,  my  sold  is  rent  by  a  tempest  stronger 

Bright  visions  of  unfading  palms. 

Than    ever   was  Nature's,  with  ruin 

Wherewith  the  brows  of  saints  are 

rife, 

crowned,  — 

228 


LATER   FOE  MS. 


Awhile  my  soul  resigns  them  all, 
Content  to  rest  death's  dreamless  thrall. 
Safe  underground ! 

Rest!  rest!  oblivious  rest  I  crave. 
Though  narrowed  to  a  pine-clad  grave. 

With   sylvan   shadows   shimmering 
round ; 
The  peace  of  Heaven,  if  fair  and  deep, 
Scarce  wooes  me  like  Earth's  ebon  sleep, 

Far  underground. 

By  infinite  weariness  oppressed 

Of  soul  and  senses,  blood  and  breast, 

Where  can   such   Gilead    balm    be 
found 
As  that  which  breathes  from  out  the  sod 
Baptized  by  rain  and  dews  of  God, 

Deep  underground? 

A  century's  space  I  yearn  to  be 
Untroubled,  slumbering  tranquilly. 

There,  by  the  haunted   woodlands 
bound ; 
What  suns  shall  set,  what  planets  rise 
O'er  pulseless  brain  and  curtained  eyes, 

Dark  underground ! 

A  century's  sleep  might  bring  redress 
To  these  dull  wounds  of  weariness, 

Till    the    soothed   spirit,   hale   and 
sound, 
Grow  conscious  of  the  sacred  trust 
Which  holds  immortal  bloom  in  dust, 

Safe  underground. 

Yea!  conscious  grow  of  rustling  wings, 
And  keen,  mysterious  whisperings, 

Blown   flame-like    o'er    the   burial- 
mound  : 
My  soul  would  feel  thy  Orient  kiss, 
Angel  of  Palingenesis, 

Thrilled  underground ! 


THE  DRYAD  OF    THE   PINE. 

Ah,  forest   sweetheart!   over  land   and 

sea 
I  come  once  more,  once  more  to  stand 

by  thee; 


My  sylvan  darling!  set  'twixt  shade  and 

sheen, 
Soft  as  a  maid,  yet  stately  as  a  queen! 

Thy  loyal  head,  crowned  by  one  lonely 

star, 
Flickers  thro'  twilight,  coldly  fine,  and 

far; 
But  thy  earth-yearning  branches   bend 

to  greet 
The  lowliest  wood-grass  tangled   round 

my  feet.' 

Leaning  on  thee,  I  feel  the  subtlest  thrill 
Stir  thy  dusk  limbs,  tho'  all  the  heavens 

are  still; 
And  'neath  thy  rings  of  rugged  fretwork, 

mark 
What  seems  a  heart-throb  muffled  in  the 

dark ! 

Here  lingering  long,  amid  the  shadowy 
gleams. 

Faintly  I  catch  (yet  scarce  as  one  that 
dreams) 

Low  words  of  alien  music,  softly  sung, 

And  rhythmic  sighs  in  some  sweet  un- 
known tongue. 

And  something  rare,  I  cannot  clasp  or 
see, 
j   Flits  vaguely  out  from  this  mysterious 
tree  — 
A  viewless  glory,  an  ethereal  grace, 
I   Which  make  Elysian  all   the   haunted 
place! 

Ethereal!  viewless!  yet  divinely  dear! 

Ah  me !  what  strange  enchantment  hov- 
ers near. 

What  breaths  of  love  the  old,  old  dreams 
renew  I 

What  kisses  fall,  like  charmed  Thessa- 
lian  dew ! 

My  Dryad-Love  hath  slipped  the  impris- 
oning bark, 

Her  heart  on  mine,  unmvffied  by  the 
dark. 


TO  A   BEE. 


229 


WELCOME   TO  FJROST. 

Lord  of  fair  realms  and  watery  worlds 

grotesque ! 

0  Spirit!   at  whose  wafts  of   chilling 

Majestic  afreet  of  weird  Arabesque ! 

breath 

We  hail  thee  sovereign  in  these  fevered 

Autumn  unbinds  her  zone,  to  rest  in 

lands. 

death ; 

No  more  with  alien  hearts  and   folded 

Touched  by  whose  blight  the  light  of 

hands, 

cordial  days 

But    as    an    angel    from    the    fadeless 

Is   lost  in   sombre  browns   and  sullen 

palms, 

grays ; 

And  the  great  River  of  God's  central 

Thou  seemest  of  all  sad  things  a  mourn- 

calms, 

ful  part: 

Whose  silent  charm  must  work  benign 

Yet  now  we  greet  thee  with  exultant 

release, 

heart. 

Whose  touch  is  healing,  and  whose  breath 

Not  as   a  thief,  at  night-time  bearing 

is  —  peace! 

doom, 

But   a  brave  messenger  of    grace  and 

bloom ; 

THE  PINE'S   MYSTERY. 

Thy  flickering  robe  and  footsteps  soft  we 

mark 

I. 

Down  the  dim  borders  of  the  tremulous 

Listen!    the    sombre    foliage    of    the 

Park; 

Pine, 

And  though  before  thee  flowers  and  fo- 

A   swart    Ghana    of    the    woodland 

liage  wane, 

trees, 

Thou  layest  a  magic  hand  on  human 

Is  answering  what  we  may  but  half  di- 

pain. 

vine, 

To  those  soft  whispers  of  the  twilight 

Eed  Fever,  soothed  by  thy  cool  finger-tips, 

breeze ! 

Ebbs  from  hot  cheek  and  wildly-mutter- 

ing lips ; 

ii. 

Delirious   dreams  and  frenzied  fancies 

Passion  and  mystery  murmur  through 

fade 

the  leaves, 

Into  fine  landscapes  of  enchanted  shade, 

Passion  and  mystery,  touched  by  death- 

With   low  of    kine  and  lapse  of  lyric 

less  pain. 

rills 

Whose  monotone  of  long,  low  anguish 

Through  the  cleft  channel  of  Arcadian 

grieves 

hills; 

For  something  lost  that  shall  not  live 

Till  the  worn  patient  feels  his  languid 

again ! 

eyes 

Flushed  with  what  seems    an    earthly 

Paradise. 

And  life's  old  blissful  tide,  with  lustier 

TO  A  BEE. 

strain, 

Small  epicurean,  would  to  heaven  that  I 

Revels  in  music  through  each  ransomed 

Could    borrow  your    lithe    body  and 

vein. 

swift  wing 

To  speed,  a  lightning  atom  through  the 

Therefore,  O  monarch  of  all  cold  device. 

sky. 

Wrought  in  strange  temples  of  Siberian 

The  blithest  courier  on  the  winds  of 

ice! 

spring! 

230 


LATER   POEMS. 


O  blissful  mite!  native  of  light  and  air! 
In  eager  zeal  you  haste  your  spoils  to 
win; 
From  half-blown  bud  to  flower  all  ma- 
tron-fair, 
Sucking     the      nectared      sweetness 
shrined  within ! 

The  jonquil  wooes  you  with  her  golden 
blush, 
And  blossoming  quince  (each  flower  a 
fairy  Mars, 
That  tints  its  heaven  of  green  with  crim- 
soned flush), 
While  the  pure  ''white-rod"  blooms 
in  silvery  stars, 

Open  to  yield  their  delicate  richness  up. 
But  most  you  love  on  vernal  noons,  to 
dart 
'Mid   jasmine  bowers,   and  drain   each 
petalled  cup 
With  fervid  lip  and  warm  voluptuous 
heart. 

There,  safely  couched,  you  hum  a  low 
refrain , 
Of  such  supreme  and  rare  contentment 
born, 
Its  happy  monotone  mocks  our  human 
pain, 
And  subtly  stings  us  with  unconscious 
scorn. 

Thence,  honey-freighted,  you  steal  lazily 
out. 
Pausing  a  moment  on  some  leafy  brink, 
As   if  enmeshed    by  viewless  webs    of 
doubt 
From  what  next  fount  of  luscious  life 
to  drink  — 

A  moment  only.     Soon  your  matchless 
flight 
Cleaves  the  far  blue ;  your  elfin  thun- 
der booms 
In   elfin   echoes   from  yon    glimmering 
height, 
To  fall   and  die  amid  these  ravished 
blooms. 


Gone,  like  a  vision !    Yet,  be  sure  that  he 

Hatli    only    flown    through     lovelier 

flowers  to  stray, 

Anacreon's  soul,  thus  prisoned  in  a  bee, 

Still  sips    and    sings    the    springtide 

hours  away ! 


THE     FIRST     MOCKIXG-  BIRD     IN 
SPUING. 

Wixged  poet  of  vernal  ethers! 

Ah!  where  hast  thou  lingered  long? 
I  have  missed  thy  passionate,  skyward 

flights 
And  the  trills  of  thy  changeful  song. 
Hast  thou  been  in  the  hearts  of  wood- 
lands old, 
Half    dreaming,   and,   drowsed    by  the 

winter's  cold. 
Just  crooning  the  ghost  of  thy  springtide 

lay 
To  the  listless  shadows,  benumbed  and 

gray  ? 
Or  hast  thou  strayed  by  a  tropic  shore, 
And  lavished,  O  sylvan  troubadour ! 
The  boundless  wealth  of  thy  music  free 
On  the  dimpling  waves  of  the  Southland 

sea? 
What  matter  ?   Thou  comest  with  magic 

strain, 
To  the  morning  haunts  of  thy  life  again, 
And  thy  melodies  fall  in  a  rhythmic  rain. 


The  wren  and  the  field-lark  listen 
To    the    gush    from    their  laureate's 

throat; 
And   the  blue-bird  stops  on  the  oak  to 

catch 
Each  rounded  and  perfect  note. 
The  sparrow,  his  pert  head  reared  aloft. 
Has  ceased  to  chirp  in  the  grassy  croft. 
And  is  bending  the  curves  of  his  tiny  ear 
In  the  pose  of  a  critic  wise,  to  hear. 
A  blackbird,   perched  on  a    glistening 

gum. 
Seems  lost  in  a  rapture,  deep  and  dumb ; 
And  as  eagerly  still  in  his  tranced  hush. 


THE   BED   AND    THE    WHITE   ROSE. 


231 


"Mid  the  copse  beneath,  is  a  clear-eyed 

thrush. 
Xo  longer  the  dove  by  the  thorn-tree 

root 
Moans  sad  and  soft  as  a  far-off  flute. 
All  Nature  is  hearkening,  charmed  and 

mute. 


We  scarce  can  deem  it  a  marvel, 
For  the  songs  our  nightingale  sings 

Throb    warm    and     sweet     with     the 
rhythmic  beat 
Of  the  fervors  of  countless  springs. 

All  beautiful  measures  of  sky  and  earth 

Outpour  in  a  second  and  rarer  birth 

From   that  mellow  throat.     When  the 
winds  are  whist. 

And  he  follows  his  mate  to  their  sunset 
tryst, 

Where  the  wedded  myrtles  and  jasmine 
twine. 

Oh!  the  swell  of  his  music  is  half  di- 
vine! 

And  I  vaguely  wonder,  O  bird !  can  it  be 

That  a  human  spirit  hath  part  in  thee  ? 

Some   Lesbian  singer's,  who  died  per- 
chance 

Too  soon  in  the  summer  of  Greek  ro- 
mance, 

But  the  rich  reserves  of  whose  broken 
lay, 

In   some  mystical,   wild,  undreamed-of 
way, 

Find  voice  in  thy  bountiful   strains  to- 
day! 


THE  RED  AXD    THE   WHITE  ROSE. 

The  Red  Rose  bowed  one  golden  sum- 
mer's night, 

The  Red  Rose  bent,  low  whispering  to 
the  White, 

"  Thou  pallid  shadow  of  a  beauteous 
flower, 

Unchanged  from  purpling  dawn  to  sun- 
set hour; 


Whose  calm,  cold  heart  beneath  all  lights 

that  beam, 
Seems    centred     always    in   an    Arctic 

dream ; 

Prim,  puritanic,  passionless,  austere, 
What   would' st   thou  give   my  opulent 
life  to  share  ? 

To  every  breeze  —  the  daintiest  breeze 

that  blows, 
Each  petalled  curve  of  mine  more  richly 

glows ;  — 

And  all  the  countless  tints  of  heaven- 
born  grace 

But  touch  to  make  more  bright  my  Hebe 
face!" 

"Ah!  well,  fulfil  thy  fate!"  the  White 

Rose  said ; 
'"List  to  the  wooing  winds!  uplift  thy 

head 

In  sovereign  pride  through  every  radiant 

phase 
Of  star-illumined  nights   and  cloudless 

days; 

Let  winged  lovers  thy  warm  leaves  dis- 
part, 

To  find  voluptuous  shelter  next  thy 
heart. 

Fulfil  thy  fate,  O  Queen!  but  leave  to  me 
My  stainless  calm  and  cloistral  sanctity; 

Those    passionate   airs    that    trembling 

round  thee  meet, 
Sink  in  soft  worship  at  my  veiled  feet; 

The  reverent  sun-rays  shimmering  gently 

down. 
Weave  o'er  my  brows  a  halo  for  a  crown ; 

And  while  I  muse  in  star,  or  moonshine 

faint, 
The  flowers  seem  murmuring,   '  Lo !  our 

warden  saint! '  " 


'23-2 


LATER   FOE  MS. 


The  Red  Rose  heard,  but  ere  she  spoke, 

her  mouth 
Thralled  by  the  light,  quick  kisses  of  the 

South, 

Passed  from  arch  wonder,  blent  with  gay 

disdain, 
Back  to  its  dimpled  niirthf  ulness  again ; 

And  she, —  the  garden's  empress — proud 
yet  fond,  — 

Of  summer  flowers,  the  matchless  Rosa- 
mond,— 

Looked  at  her  pale-hued    sister,   dew- 

impearled, 
As  that  fair  marvel  of  the  island  world, 

Might,  in  her  ruddier  nature's  Tropic 

glow, 
Have  viewed  a  calm  St.  Agnes'  brow  of 

snow, 

With  some  dim  sense  of  mystic  space 

between 
The    heaven-bound    votaress    and   the 

earthly  queen ! 


BEFORE    THE  MIX  I?  OB. 

Where  in  her  chamber  by  the  Southern 

sea, 
Her  taper's  light  shone  soft  and  silvery, 
Fair  as  a  planet  mirrored  in  the  main, 
Fresh  as   a  blossom    bathed    by    April 

rain, 
A  maiden  robed  for  restful  sleep  aright, 
Stood  in  her  musing  sweetness,  pure  and 

white 
As  some  shy  spirit  in  a  haunted  place : 
Her  dew-bright  eyes  and  faintly  flushing 

face 
Viewed  in  the  glass  their  delicate  beauty 

beam, 
Strange  as  a  shadowy  ' '  dream  within  a 

dream" 
With  fingers  hovering  like  a  white  dove's 

wings, 


'Mid  little,  tender  sighs  and  murmur- 
ings 

(Joy's  scarce  articulate  speech),  her 
eager  hands 

Loosed  the  light  coif,  the  ringlet's  golden 
bands, 

Till,  by  their  luminous  loveliness  em- 
braced, 

From  lily-head  to  lithe  and  lissome  waist, 

Poured  the  free  tresses  like  a  cascade's 
fall. 

Her  image  answered  from  the  shimmer- 
ing wall, 

Answered  and  deepened,  while  the 
gracious  charms 

Of  brow  and  cheek,  bared  breast  and 
dimpling  arms, 

To  innocent  worship  stirred  her  happy 
heart : 

Her  lips  —  twin  rosebud  petals  blown 
apart  — 

Quivered,  half  breathless;  then,  subdued 
but  warm. 

Around  her  perfect  face,  her  pliant 
form 

A  subtler  air  seemed  gathering,  touched 
with  fire 

Byr  many  a  fervid  thought  and  swift  de- 
sire, 

With  dreams  of  love,  that,  bee-like,  came 
and  went, 

To  feed  the  honeyed  core  of  life's  con- 
tent! 

Closer  toward  her  mirrored  self  she 
pressed, 

With  large  child-eyes,  and  gently  pant- 
ing breast, 

Bowed  as  a  flower  when  May-time 
breezes  pass, 

And  kissed  her  own  dear  Image  in  the 
elass ! 


TWO  EPOCHS. 

Lovers  by  a  dim  sea  strand 
Looking  wave-ward,  hand  in  hand; 
Silent,  trembling  with  the  bliss 
Of  their  first  betrothal  kiss : 


WIND   FROM    THE   EAST. 


23a 


Lovers  still,  tho'  wedded  long! 
(Time  true  love  can  never  wrong! 
Gazing  —  faithful  hand  in  hand, 
O'er  a  darker  sea  and  strand: 


Ah!  one  lover's  face  is  wan 
As  a  wave  the  moon  shines  on ; 
But  those  strange  tides  stretched  afar 
Know  not  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  star! 


"O  masterful  wind  and  cruel  !  at  thy  sweep, 
From  the  bold  hill-top  to  the  valley  deep, 
Surprise  and  fear  through  all  the  woodlands  run." 


WIND  FROM   THE   EAST* 


The  Spring,  so  fair  in  her  young  incom- 
pleteness, 

Of  late  the  very  type  of   tender  sweet- 
ness ; 

Now,    through  frail   leaves    and    misty 
branches  brown, 

Looks   forth,    the  dreary  shadow   of   a 
frown 

Chasing  the  frank  smile  from  her  inno- 
cent face ; 

What  marvel  this  '?  for  the  East  Wind's 
disgrace 

Smites,  like   a  buffet,    April's   tingling 
cheek, 

Whence  the  swift,  outraged  blood  doth 
ebb  to  seek 

The  affrighted  heart ! 

The  Earth,  herself  so  gay, 

Buoyant,  and  happy,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

*  This  piece  is  (for  the  most  part)  a 
rhymed  version  of  an  exceedingly  graphic  de- 
scription of  the  East  wind,  which  occurs  in 
Mr.  Blackmore's  admirable  novel,  "Cripps,  the 
Carrier."  Mr.  Blackmore  is  a  poet,  although 
he  writes  in  prose. 


Thrills,  shivering  low  with  every  flaw 

increased, 
And  fraught  with  salt-sea  coldness  from 

the  East! 

O  masterful  wind  and  cruel!  at  thy 
sweep, 

From  the  bold  hill-top  to  the  valley- 
deep, 

Surprise  and  fear  through  all  the  wood- 
lands run. 

Till  the  coy  nestling-places  of  the  sun 

Are  ruffled  .up,  from  shine  to  shade,  as 
when 

At  the  first  note  of  storm  the  moorland 
hen 

Ruffles  her  wings  ere  yet  their  warmth 
be  spread 

About  each  tremulous  nestling's  dusky 
head. 

On  the  tall  trees  the  foremost  buds,  half 
bare, 

Stared,  as  wild-eyed,  on  the  keen,  rasp- 
ins;  air: 


234 


LA  TER   POEMS. 


Then  shook  —  but  not  with  softly-palpi- 
tant thrills. 

As  when,  o'erlooking  the  freed  moun- 
tain-rills. 

They  felt  their  life  by  loving  arms  ca- 
ressed — 

Warm,  viewless  arms  of  zephyrs  of  the 
West  — 

But  with  the  sense,  the  cold  and  shivery 
stress 

Of  utter  and  forlornest  nakedness. 

The  twigs  that  bore  them  flattened  up- 
ward, lost 

To  all  but  rigid  consciousness  of  frost; 

And  their  full-foliaged  branches  which 
so  blindly 

Bowed  in  meek  homage  when  the  winds 
were  kindly 

Strained  upward,  too,  in  stiff,  rebellious 
fashion. 

With  throes  of  anguish  and  deep  moans 
of  passion. 

Wrung  from  them  by  wild  beatings  of 
the  gale ! 

Then  many  a  tiny  leaf,  though  waxing 
pale. 

Cloud-shadowed;  all  unfrayed.  yet  quiv- 
ering, shrunk 

Behind  the  mosses  of  some  giant 
trunk, 

To  wait  till  the  shrewd  tempest  hurtling 

by 

Left  Spring  once  more  empress  of  earth 

and  sky  — 
While   many  a  large  leaf,  almost  riven 

apart, 
Piped   a   sad   dirge   from  out  its  fluted 

heart, 
And  knowing  what  sombre  selvage  must 

be  seen  — 
Alas,   too  soon !  —  to   film   its   glow   of 

green. 
Bewailed   the  hour  whose   treacherous 

brightness  came 
To  warm  its  life-blood  into  genial  flame 
Only  to  send  the  blissful-flowing  tide 
Back  through  the  baffled  veins  unsatis- 
fied, 


Its   nascent    joy   nipped   by   the    arctic 

breath 
And  merciless  wattage  of  this  Wind  of 

Death ! 


PEACH  BLOOMS. 

O!  tenderly  beautiful,  beyond  compare. 
Flushed   from    pale   pink    to    deepest 
rosebud  hue  — 

Nurslings  of  tranquil  sunshine  and  mild 
air. 
Of  shadowless  dawn,  and  silvery  twi- 
light dew  — 

Ye  blush  and  burn,  as  if  your  flickering 
grace 

Were   love's   own  tint   on  Spring's   en- 
amored face! 

And  day  by  day  —  yea,  golden  hour  by 
hour 
Your  subtle  fragrance  and  rich  beauty 
tell 

(Each  fairy  blossom  rounded  into  flower) , 
How  matchless  once  that  lost  Arcadian 
spell. 

Which  dwelt  in  leafy  bowers  and  vernal 
dyes 

Whence  coyly  peeped  the  Dryad's  fawn- 
like eyes! 

And  yet,  while  all  so  fair  and  bounteous 
seems. 
While  the  birds  carol  —  each  his  dain- 
tiest part, 

Veiled  in  soft  brightness,  and  like  mu- 
sical dreams 
In  some  blithe  soul  —  the  bee-swarms 
haunt  your  heart. 

Lo!   severed    slowly   from  yon    roseate 
crown, 

A  scarlet  snowdrift,  silent,  falters  down. 

The  reign  of  these  rich  blooms  is  almost 

done ; 
Soon  to  the  languid  Zephyr's  feeblest 

breath, 
Their  loosened    petals,  yielding  one  by 

one, 


LOVE'S  AUTUMN. 


235 


Must   find   the  Lethe  of  unwakening 

Till  in  a  sunset  hour,  whose  light 

death. 

Pale  hints  of  radiance  pulsed  o'erhead, 

Ah  me !  of  all  the  bourgeoned  buds  that 

Afar  the  moaning  East  wind  died, 

shoot 

And  the  mild  West  wind  breathed  in- 

Even to  full  flower,  how  few  shall  bear 

stead. 

us  fruit! 

Then  the  clouds  broke,  and  ceased  the 

Their  little  day  is  closing  fast  in  gloom ; 

rain ; 

Nor  will  they  reck  —  poor  wilted  waifs, 

The  sunset  many  a  kindling  shaft 

and  blind! 

Shot  to  the  wood's  heart;  nature  rose, 

What  germs  of  richness  wax  from  faded 

And  through  her  soft-lipped  verdures 

bloom. 

laughed. 

To  charm  the  pampered  taste  of  hu- 

man kind; 

Low  to  the  breeze ;  as  some  fair  maid, 

Forever  dropped  from  off  their  parent 

Love  wakes  from  troublous  dreams, 

stem, 

might  rise, 

What  have  man's  thoughts  or  tastes  to 

Half  dazed,  yet  happy  —  mists  of  sleep 

do  with  them  ? 

Still  hovering  in  her  haunted  eyes. 

So  let  them  rest,  I  pray  you,  let  them  rest, 

— *-. ■ 

Small,   perishing    sweettiearts   of  the 

LOVE'S  AUTUMN. 

sun  and  rain : 
0 !  mother- earth,   thou    hast  a    ruthful 

[To  My  Wife.] 

breast, 

I  would  not  lose  a  single  silvery  ray 

Which   yearns    to  fold  thy  humblest 

Of  those  white  locks  which  like  a  milky 

child  from  pain. 

way 

Men  fall  like  flowers;   both  claim  the 

Streak  the  dusk  midnight  of  thy  raven 

self-same  balm, 

hair; 

The  equal  peace  of  thy  majestic  calm ! 

I  would  not  lose,  0  sweet!   the  misty 

shine 

THE  AWAKENING. 

Of  those  half-saddened,  thoughtful  eyes 
of  thine, 

From  day  to  day  the  dreary  heaven 

Whence  Love  looks  forth,  touched  by 

Outpoured  its  hopeless  heart  in  rain ; 

the  shadow  of  care ; 

The  conscious  pines,  half  shuddering, 

heard 

I  would  not  miss  the  droop  of  thy  dear 

The  secret  of  the  East  wind's  pain. 

mouth, 

The  lips  less  dewy-red  than  when  the 

Mist  veiled  the  sun  —  the  sombre  land. 

South.  — 

In  floating  cloud- wracks  densely  furled, 

The  young  South  wind  of  passion  sighed 

Seemed  shut  forever  from  the  bloom 

o'er  them; 

And  gladness  of  the  living  world. 

I  would  not  miss  each  delicate  flower  that 

From    week    to    week    the    changeless 

blows 

heaven 

On  thy  wan  cheeks,  soft  as  September' s 

Wept  on  —  and  still  its  secret  pain 

rose 

To  the  bent  pine-trees  sobbed  the  wind, 

Blushing    but    faintly  on    its  faltering 

In  hollow  truces  of  the  rain. 

stem; 

236 


LATER   POEMS. 


I  would  not  iniss  the  air  of  chastened 

grace 
Which  breathed  divinely  from  thy  patient 

face, 
Tells  of  love's  watchful  anguish,  merged 

in  rest; 

Naught  would  I  miss  of  all  thou  hast,  or 

art, 
O!    friend    supreme,    whose    constant, 

stainless  heart, 
Doth  house  unknowing,  many  an  angel 

guest ; 

Their     presence     keeps     thy     spiritual 

chambers  pure ; 
While  the  flesh  fails,  strong  love  grows 

more  and  more 
Divinely  beautiful  with  perished  years ; 

Thus,  at  each  slow,  but  surely  deepening 
sign 

Of  life's  decay,  we  will  not,  Sweet!  re- 
pine, 

ISor  greet  its  mellowing  close  with  thank- 
less tears ; 

Love's  spring  was  fair,  love's  summer 

brave  and  bland, 
But  through  love's  autumn  mist  I  view 

the  land, 
The  land  of  deathless  summers  yet  to  be ; 

There,  I  behold  thee,  young  again  and 

bright, 
In  a  great  flood   of   rare   transfiguring 

light, 
But  there  as  here,  thou  smilest,  Love !  on 

me! 


THE  SPIRE  A. 

[This  exquisite  plant  blooms  in  the  Southern 
States  as  early  as  the  middle  of  February.] 

Of  all  the  subtle  fires  of  earth 

Which    rise    in  form  of   spring-time 
flowers. 
Oh,  say  if  aught  of  purer  birth 
Is  nursed  by  suns  and  showers 


Than   this  fair  plant,  whose  stems  are 
bowed 
In  such  lithe  curves  of  maiden  grace, 
Veiled  in  white  blossoms  like  a  cloud 
Of  daintiest  bridal  lace  ? 

So  rare,  so  soft,  its  blossoms  seem 

Half  woven  of  moonshine's  misty  bars, 
And  tremulous  as  the  tender  gleam 
Of  the  far  Southland  stars. 

Perchance  —  who  knows  ?  —  some  virgin 
bright, 
Some  loveliest  of  the  Dryad  race, 
Pours  through  these  flowers  the  kindling 
light 
Of  her  Arcadian  face. 

Nor  would  I  marvel  overmuch 

If  from  yon  pines  a  wood-god  came, 
And  with    a  bridegroom's   lips   should 
touch 
Her  conscious  heart  to  flame ; 

While  she,  revealed  at  that  strange  tryst, 

In  all  her  mystic  beauty  glows, 
Lifting  the  cheek  her  Love  had  kissed, 
Paled  like  a  bridal  rose. 


COQUETTE. 
[Among  the  family  portraits.] 
I. 
Yes  !  there  from  out  the  gallery  gloom, 
Retaining  still  a  flush  of  bloom, 
I  mark  our  bright  ancestress  glow  — 
The  maiden  Rose  of  long  ago. 
She  lived  in  times  of  sumptuous  dress, 
And  rich  colonial  stateliness ; 
But  through  the  strong  restraints  of  art 
I  seem  to  view  her  heaving  heart, 
As  if  a  protest  warm  it  made 
'Gainst  that  stiff  bodice  of  brocade, 
While  in  her  fair  cheeks'  deepening  dyes, 
Her  lifted  brows  and  roguish  eyes, 
Her  swan-like  neck  and  dimpled  chin — 
Cleft  for  small  Loves  to  ambush  in  — 


"All!     many  a  gallant  loved  her  well 
In  those  old  days." 


THE    WORLD    WITHIN   US. 


237 


I  can  not  fail  (who  could  ?)  to  see 

All  potent  charms  of  coquetry  — 

The  wiles   whose   glamour,    swift   and 

sure, 
Smote  hapless  victims  by  the  score ; 
And  even  now  (although  they  be 
Discerned  in  pictured  phantasy) 
Xot  all  innocuous,  but  possessed 
Of  power  to  pierce  the  manly  breast, 
If  frosted  to  its  shivering  core 
By  forty  arctic  years  or  more. 


Ah !  many  a  gallant  loved  her  well 
In  those  old  days !     Her  features  tell 
The  world-wide  story  o'er  again, 
Of  others'  passion,  her  disdain; 
Of  hearts  that  spent  their  best  to  make 
Her  own  more  tender  for  love's  sake, 
Only  in  time  to  find,  perchance, 
Dull  ending  to  a  life's  romance, 
Since  trivial  natures  are  not  stirred 
Save  by  the  lightly  trivial  word; 
And  much  I  fear,  despite  the  fine 
Rare  beauty  of  each  faultless  line  — 
Her  face,  of  gay  insouciance,  shows 
Xo  golden  gulfs  of  pure  repose 
Deep  in  her  inmost  being  shrined  — 
But  shallow  thoughts  and  purpose  blind. 
And  yet  who  knows  ?    My  erring  sight 
May  not  have  read  its  meanings  right, 
And  something  of  ethereal  grace 
May  lurk  beneath  that  careless  face, 
Which  masks  with  inconsiderate  mirth 
A  soul  not  wholly  wed  to  earth ! 


Therefore,  sweet  flesh  and  blood,  I  trust 
That,  ere  ye  passed  to  senseless  dust, 
Your  beauty  played  a  worthier  part  — 
The  love-rote  of  the  loyal  heart. 


Xo  answer  comes;  for  time  doth  mar 
Our  records.     Only,  like  a  star 
Scarce  touched  by  vapors  vague  and  chill. 
Your  gracious  image  haunts  us  still. 
But  none,  alas !  may  truly  guess 
"What  fate  befell  your  loveliness. 


SKA  TING. 

I  chased  the  maid  with  rapid  feet, 
Where  ice  and  sunbeam  quiver; 

But  still  beyond  me,  shyly  fleet, 
She  flashed  far  down  the  river. 

Sometimes,  blown  backward  in  the  chase, 

With  balmy,  soft  caresses, 
I  felt  across  my  glowing  face 

The  waft  of  perfumed  tresses. 

Sometimes  a  glance  she  shot  behind, 
O'er  graceful  shoulders  turning 

A  cheek  whose  tints  the  eager  wind 
Had  set  like  sunrise  burning. 

Then,  in  a  sudden  onward  glide, 
She  rushed  with  even  motion, 

As  a  long  wave  the  restless  tide 
Drives  shoreward  fast  from  ocean; 

And  swift  as  some  winged  creature  sped 

Far  down  the  crystal  river. 
Until  the  shining  form  that  fled 

I  dreamed  mieht  fly  forever. 


THE    WORLD    WITHIX  US. 
A   FAXTASY. 

Perch ance    our    inward    world    may 

partly  be 
But  outward  Xature's  fine  epitome; 

Xow,  o'er  it  floats  some  cloud  of  tender 

pain 
Too  frail  to  hold  the  sad  reserves  of  rain ; 

And  now  behold   some   breezy  impulse 

run 
O'er  Thought's  bright  surface,  glittering 

in  the  sun ; 

Whereon,  like  birds,  the  flocks  of  fancy 

throng, 
And  all  is  peace  and  sweetness,  light  and 

sons;: 


238 


LATER   POEMS. 


Anon,  dim  moods  like  shadowy  wood- 
lands rise 

As  'twere  between  the  spirit's  earth  and 
skies : 

All  fair  suggestions,  hints  of  twilight 
grace, 

Safe  harborage  seek  within  the  spell- 
bound space ; 

Music   is  there,   low  laughter,  and  the 

sound 
Of  fairy  voices,  echoing  gently  round 

The  cool  recesses  of  the  veiled  mind : 
While  on  the  surge  of  memory's  phan- 
tom wind, 

Ghosts    of    dead   loves,    swathed    in   a 

silvery  mist 
Pass  by  us:  and  the   lips  our  lips  had 

kissed, 

In  youth's  glad  prime,  unutterable  things 
Whisper,  through    wafts    of    visionary 
wings. 

Ah,  yes!  our  inward  world  but  mirrors 

true. 
This  outward  world  of  sense;  —  it  hath 

its  dew, 

Its  sunshine,  and  fresh  roses,  white  and 

red; 
It  holds  a  tender  moonlight  over  head ; 

The  dews  of  yearning,  mild,  or  fiery- 
bright. 

The  flowers  of  peace,  or  passion;  the 
calm  light 

Of  reasoning  thought,  and  retrospection 

fine, 
All   merged    in    subtlest  beauty  —  half 

divine ! 

It  hath  its  mounts  of  vision,  and  its  vales 
Of  contemplation,  where  fond  nightin- 
gales, 


Born   of  the   brain,   and   'gainst    some 

thorns  of  woe, 
Setting  their  breasts  —  but    sing  more 

sweetly  so: 

Fountains  it  owns  of  shyest  fantasie; 
Glad  streams  of  inspiration,   swift  and 
free, 

Rolling  toward  Thought's  central  ocean 

vast 
Wherein  all  lesser  forms  of  thought,  at 

last 

Sink,  as  the  rivulets  perish  in  a  sea ;  — 
Thus,   rounded,  whole,   our  spirit-land- 
scapes be, 

i   Our  spirit-world  thus  perfect;  over  all, 
Xo  clouds  of   doubt  hang,  stifling  as  a 
pall; 

But   if    the    soul   be    healthful,    noble, 

high, 
God's  promise  lights  it,  like  a  sleepless 

eye! 


FOREST    QUIET. 

[In  the  South.] 

So  deep  this  sylvan  silence,  strange  and 

sweet, 
Its  dryad-guardian,  virginal  Peace,   can 

hear 
The  pulses  of  her  own  pure  bosom  beat ; 

And  her  low  voice  echoed  by  elfin  rills, 
And  far-off  forest  fountains,   sparkling 

clear 
'Mid    haunted    hollows    of    the    hoary 

hills; 

No  breeze,  nor  wraith  of  any  breeze  that 

blows. 
Stirs  the  charmed  calm;  not  even  yon 

gossamer-chain, 
Dew-born,  and  swung  'twixt  violet  and 

wild  rose, 


A    STORM  IN   THE   DISTANCE. 


239 


Thrills    to   the  airy  elements'    subtlest 

I  followed  —  followed  the  bright  shape 

breath ; 

that  flew, 

Such  marvellous  stillness  almost  broods 

Still  circling  up  the  blue, 

like  pain 

Till  as  a  fountain  that  has  reached  its 

O'er  the  hushed  sense,  holding  dim  hints 

height, 

of  death ! 

Falls  back  in  sprays  of  light 

Slowly  dissolved,   so    that    enrapturing 

What  shadows   of   sound    survive,    the 

lay  > 

waves'  far  sigh, 

Divinely  melts  away 

Drowsed  cricket's  chirp,  or  mock-bird's 

Through  tremulous  spaces  to  a  music- 

croon  in  sleep, 

mist, 

But  touch  this  sacred,  soft  tranquillity 

Soon  by  the  fitful  breeze 

How  gently  kissed 

To  yet  diviner  quiet :  the  fair  land 

Into  remote  and  tender  silences. 

Breathes  like  an  infant  lulled  from  deep 

to  deep 
Of  dreamless  rest,  on  some  wave-whis- 

pering strand ! 

A   STOUM  IX  THE   DISTANCE. 

[Among  the  Georgian  Hills.] 

THE  MOCKIXG-BIRD. 

I  see  the  cloud-born  squadrons  of  the 

gale, 

[At  night.] 

Their    lines    of    rain    like    glittering 

A  goldex  pallor  of  voluptuous  light 

spears  deprest 

Filled  the  warm  southern  night : 

( While  all    the  affrighted  land  grows 

The  moon,  clear  orbed,  above  the  sylvan 

darkly  pale), 

scene 

In    flashing   charge   on  earth's  half- 

Moved  like  a  stately  queen, 

shielded  breast ; 

So   rife   with  conscious  beauty  all  the 

while, 

Sounds    like    the    rush    of    trampling 

What  could  she  do  but  smile 

columns  float 

At  her  own  perfect  loveliness  below, 

From    that    fierce    conflict;    volleyed 

Glassed  in  the  tranquil  flow 

thunders  peal, 

Of     crystal     fountains     and     unruffled 

Blent  with  the  maddened  wind's  wild 

streams  ? 

bugle-note; 

Half  lost  in  waking  dreams, 

The  lightnings  flash,  the  solid  wood- 

As   down    the    loneliest    forest    dell    I 

lands  reel ! 

strayed, 

Lo !  from  a  neigboring  glade, 

Ha!  many  a  foliaged  guardian  of  the 

Flashed  through  the  drifts  of  moonshine, 

height, 

swiftly  came 

Majestic  pine  or  chestnut,  riven  and 

A  fairy  shape  of  flame. 

bare, 

It  rose  in  dazzling  spirals  overhead, 

Falls  in  the  rage  of  that  aerial  fight, 

Whence  to  wild  sweetness  wed, 

Led  by  the  Prince  of  all  the  powers  of 

Poured  marvellous  melodies,  silvery  trill 

air! 

on  trill ; 

The  very  leaves  grew  still 

Vast    boughs,    like    shattered    banners 

On  the  charmed  trees  to  hearken ;  while 

hurtling  fly 

for  me, 

Down  the  thick  tumult  :   while,  like 

Heart-trilled  to  ecstasy, 

emerald  snow, 

240 


LATER   POEMS. 


Millions  of  orphaned  leaves  make  wild 
the  sky, 
Or  drift    in  shuddering    helplessness 
below. 

Still,  still,  the  levelled  lances  of  the  rain 
At  earth's  half-shielded    breast  take 
glittering  aim; 
All  space  is  rife  with  fury,  racked  with 
pain. 
Earth   bathed  in  vapor,   and  heaven 
rent  by  flame ! 

At  last  the  cloud-battalions  through  long 
rifts 
Of    luminous   mists   retire;    .  .  .  the 
strife  is  done; 
And    earth    once    more    her    wounded 
beauty  lifts, 
To  meet  the  healing  kisses  of  the  sun. 


THE   VISION  BY  THE  SEA. 
"  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever." 

I. 
A  hatjntixg  face!  with  strange,  ethereal 

eyes, 
Deep  as  unfathomed  gulfs   of  tranquil 

skies 
When  o'er  their  brightness  a  vague  mist 

is  drawn, 
Breathed  from  the  half-veiled    lips  of 

melting  dawn ; 
A  mouth   -whose    passionate    love  and 

sweetness  seem 
But  just  released  from  kisses  in  a  dream; 
A   brow  like  Psyche's,  pensive,  broad, 

and  low 
And  white  as  winter's  whitest  wreath  of 

snow; 
While    round   that   gracious    forehead, 

calmly  fair, 
Hippies  an  April  rain  of  golden  hair. 


For  some  rapt  moments,  on  the  ocean 

strand. 
Unconscious,  beautiful,  T  saw  her  stand, 


As    tremulous    wave    on     wave,     with 

freightage  sweet 
Of  murmured  music,  fawned  about  her 

feet, 
Then   died   in   one  divine,   harmonious 

sigh; 
The  breeze  bewitched,  could  only  falter 

nigh, 
And   in  shy  delicate  wafts   of  homage 

play 
With  her    rare   tresses;    like   incarnate 

May, 
She   seemed   the   earth,   the    tides,   the 

heaven,  to  bless: 
|   For  once  I  gazed  on  Beauty's  perfectness. 


I  gazed  for  some  rapt  moments,  but  no 

more ; 
Then  lowered  mine  eyes  and  slowly  left 
the  shore 
j   Made  marvellous  by  that  vision  of  de- 
light ; 
I   Yet  evermore  its  beauty,  day  and  night, 
!   Standing  between  the  blue  sky  and  the 

sea, 
j   Shines  like  a  star  of  immortality 
i   Through  all  my  being;  it  becomes  a  part 
I   Of  the  deep  life  that  quickens  soul  and 

heart 
I    To  sense  of  things  ideal  and  supreme  — 
!   A  palpable  bliss,  yet  wedded  to  a  dream. 


THE   VISIOXARY  FACE. 

I  am  happy  with  her  I  love, 

In  a  circle  of  charmed  repose ; 
My  soul  leaps  up  to  follow  her  feet 

Wherever  my  darling  goes ; 
Whether  to  roam  through   the   garden 
walks, 

Or  pace  the  sands  by  the  sea ;  — 
There's  never  a  shadow  of  doubt  or  fear 

Brooding  'twixt  her  and  me :  — 
But  through  memory's  twilight  mists. 

Sometimes,  I  own,  in  sooth, 
Falters  the  face  of  one  I  loved 

In  the  fervent  years  of  youth;  — 


THE   BED   LILY. 


241 


The  soft  pathetic  brow  is  there, 

Though    bright    her  eyes'    bewildering 

With  its  glimmer  and  glance  of  golden 

gleams, 

hair, 

Fair  tremulous  lips  and  shining  hair. 

And  scarcely  shadowed  by  death's  eclipse 

A  something  born  of  mournful  dreams, 

The  delicate  curve  of  the  faultless  lips, 

Breathes    round    her    sad    enchanted 

The  tremulous,  tender  lips  I  kissed, 

air; 

So  coyly  raised  at  the  sunset  tryst, 

Xo  blithesome  thoughts  at  hide  and  seek 

As   we  stood  from  the   restless   world 

From  out  her  dimples  smiling  start ; 

apart, 

If  still  the  rose  be  on  her  cheek, 

'Mid  the   whispering   foliage,   heart  to 

A  thorn  is  in  her  heart. 

heart, 

In  the  fair,  far  years  of  youth. 

Young  lover,  tossed  'twixt  hope  and  fear, 

Yet,  the  vision  is  pure  as  heaven, 

Your  whispered    vow   and    yearning 

Untouched  by  a  hint  of  strife 

eyes 

From  the  passion  that  moved  itself  to 

Yon  marble  Clytie  pillared  near 

sleep, 

Could  move  as  soon  to  soft  replies ; 

On  the  morning  strand  of  life ; 

.  Or,  if  she  thrill  at  words  you  speak, 

And  I  know  that  my  living  Love  would 

Love's  memory  prompts  the  sudden 

feel 

start ; 

The  tremor  of  ruthful  tears, 

The  rose  has  paled  upon  her  cheek, 

If  I  told  of  the  sweetness  and  hope  that 

The  thorn  has  pierced  her  heart. 

drooped, 

So  soon  in  the  vanished  years: 

— * — 

She    would    not    banish    the    phantom 
sad 

THE  RED  LILY. 

Of  a  beauty  discrowned  and  low;  — 

I  call  her  the  Red  Lily.    Lo !  she  stands 

Can  jealousy  rest  in  the  rose's  breast 

From    all    her  milder    sister    flowers 

Of  a  lily  under  the  snow  ? 

apart ; 

Can  the  passion   so  warm  and   strong 

A  conscious  grace  in  those  fair-folded 

to-day 

hands, 

Envy  a  ghost  from  the  cypress  shades 

Pressed  on  the  guileful  throbbings  of 

For  an  hour  astray  ? 

her  heart ! 

Or,  the  love  that  waned  like  a  blighted 

May, 

I  call  her  the  Red  Lily.     As  all  airs 

In  the  dead  days,  long  ago, 

Of  Xorth  or  South,  the  Lily's  leaves 

Ah !  long,  how  long  ago ! 

that  stir, 

Seem  lost  in  languorous  sweetness  that 

despairs 

Of  blissful  life  or  hope,  except  through 

THE  ROSE  AND    THORN. 

her; 

She's  loveliest  of  the  festal  throng 

In  delicate  form  and  Grecian  face ; 

So  this  Red  Lily  of  maids,  this  human 

A  beautiful,  incarnate  song: 

flower, 

A  marvel  of  harmonious  grace ; 

Yielding  no  love,  all  sweets  of  love 

And  yet  I  know  the  truth  I  speak : 

doth  take. 

From   those   gay  groups   she    stands 

Twining  such  spells  of  passion's  secret 

apart. 

power 

A  rose  upon  her  tender  cheek, 

As,   woven   once,   what   lordliest  will 

A  thorn  within  her  heart. 

can  break  ? 

242 


LATER    POEMS. 


LAKE   WIXX1 PISE OGEE. 

One  day  the  River  of  Life  flowed  o'er 
The  verge  of  heaven's  enchanted  shore. 
And  falling  without  lapse  or  break. 
Its  waters  formed  this  wondrous  lake. 

Hence  the  far  sheen  of  Eden  palms 
Is  mirrored  in  its  silvery  calms. 
And  all  its  rich  cerulean  dyes 
Are  deep  as  Raphael's  splendid  eyes. 

And  hence  the  unimagined  grace 
Which  sanctities  this  lonely  place, — 
A  subtle,  soft,  ethereal  spell 
Of  light  and  sound  ineffable. 

Surely  such  tempered  glory  paints 
The  mystic  City  of  the  Saints: 
Such  music  breathes  its  dying  falls 
Above  the  heavenly  palace  walls. 

O  lake  of  peace !  whose  still  expanse 
Gleams  through  a  golden-misted  trance. 
Earth  holds  thee  sacred  and  apart, 
The  cloistered  darling  of  her  heart. 


LAKE  MISTS. 
[Composed  near   Lake  Winnipiseogee.] 

As  I  gazed  on  the  prospect  enchanted, 
On  waves  the  sun-glory  had  kissed. 

There  slowly  swept  down  from  the  dis- 
tance. 
The  phantom-like  bands  of  the.  mist. 

On  their  feet  that  were  spectrally  sound- 
less, 

They  glided  fantastic  and  chill. 
While  a  prescient  pallor  crept  over 

The  beauty  of  lake-side  and  hill ! 

All  nature  grew  cold  at  their  advent ! 

Like  Thugs  of  the  air.  demon-born. 
With    their   coils   of    blue   vapor   they 
strangled 

The  virgin  effulgence  of  morn. 

By  that  ambush  of  darkness  was  girdled 
Each  bright  beam  in  dreary  embrace. 


Till  the  fairest  young  dawn  of  September 
Lay  wan  on  her  death-shadowed  face. 

When  wildly  and  weirdly  from  sea-ward, 
A  low  wind  how  mournfully  stole! 

Like  an    anthem  outbreathed    for  the 
morning, 
Thus  sternly  divorced  from  her  soul ! 


THE  IXEJ'ITABLE    CALM. 

The  sombre  wings  of  the  tempest, 

In  fetterless  force  unfurled. 
Buffet  the  face  of  beauty. 

And  scar  the  grace  of  the  world; 

But  they  fade  at  length  with  the  dark- 
ness, 

And  softly  from  sky  to  sod 
Peace  falls  like  the  dew  of  Eden, 

From  the  opened  palm  of  God! 

Earthquake,  the  angered  Titan, 

A  continent  cleaves  apart; 
Yet  soon  the  glamour  of  quiet  heals 

Earth's  smitten  and  tortured  heart. 

And  soon  o'er  the  ruin  of  cities 
The  sun-bright  virginal  grass 

Courtesies  and  curves  into  dimples. 
At  the  kiss  of  the  winds  that  pass. 

One  lesson  all  nature  teaches. 

As  balm  to  the  troubled  breast. 
That  after  the  turmoil  of  passion 

There  cometh  a  time  of  rest. 

For  the  anguish  of  life  wanes  downward 
Like  fire  unfanned  by  a  breath; 

And  deep  is  the  ashen  stillness 
On  the  hearthstone  cold  of  death! 


THE  HEAD  LOOK. 

Lo!  in  its  still,  soft-shrouded  place, 
The  pathos  of  a  death-pale  face! 

I  view  the  marks  of  mortal  care 
Time's  hopeless  sorrows  branded  there. 


JETSAM. 


243 


Waning  beneath  the  noiseless  glide 
Of  Lethe's  dim,  ethereal  title, 

As  furrows  on  some  twilight  lea 
Fade  in  calm  wave-sweeps  of  the  sea ! 

Across  that  bare,  unbended  brow 
The  chrism  of  peace  has  fallen  now, 

And,  lightening  life's  austere  eclipse, 
A   star-soft    smile    hath    touched    the 
lips : 


Though  his  sealed  sight  the  death-mists 

mar, 
He  hath  a  strange  look,  fixed  afar :  — 

As  if  wan  folds  of  curtained  eyes 
Trembled  almost  in  act  to  rise, 

And  show  where  each  cold-lidded  sheath 
Xow  veils  the  wide,  weird  orbs  beneath, 

The  mirrored  glow,  the  blest  surprise 
Of  some  first  glimpse  of  Paradise! 


""While  grimly  down  the  moonlit  bay, 
The  wrecked  hull  gleamed  from  far." 

JETSAM. 


Be*ide  the  coast  for  many  a  rood 
Were     fragments     of     a     shipwreck 
strewn ; 

And  there  in  sad  and  sombre  mood 
I  walked  the  sands  alone. 

Torn  bales  and  broken  boxes  lay, 
Heaped  high  'mid  shattered  sails  and 
spar, 

While  grimly  down  the  moonlit  bay 
The  wrecked  hull  gleamed  from  far. 

Well  had  the  storm  its  mission  wrought, 
With  thunder  crash  and  billowy  roar; 

For  not  one  precious  waif  was  brought 
Safe  to  the  rugged  shore. 


Yet  stay!  what  tiny  sparkling  thing 
Shines    faintly  in      the    moonbeams 
cold  ? 
I    stooped,    and   wondering,   grasped  a 
ring, 
A  fairy  ring  of  gold. 

Of  great  and  small,  of  rich  and  rare. 
Of  all  yon  stranded  vessel  bore, 

Only  this  gem  the  waves  would  spare 
To  cast  unharmed  ashore. 

With  what  a  deep  and  tender  thrill 

I  put  the  modest  gem  away, 
And  while  the  silvery  vapors  chill 

Crept  ghost-like  up  the  bay, 


^44 


LATER    POEMS. 


I  dreamed  of  shivering  human  lives 
Wrecked   on    Fate's    cold    and    cruel 
lee, 

Trusting  that  some  small  hope  survives, 
Spared  to  them  from  the  sea ! 


FAMELESS   GRAVES. 

I  walked  the  ancient  graveyard's  am- 
ple round. 
Yet  found  therein  not  one  illustrious 
name 
Wedded  by  Death  to  Fame. 

The  sea-winds  moaned  by  each  deserted 
mound. 
Where  mouldering  marbles  shed  their 
pungent  must 
0"er  that  worn  human  dust. 

Thin    cloudlets    passed,    with    purpled 
skirts  of  rain 
Grazing  the  sentinel  pine-trees,  gaunt 
and  tall ; 
Some  trembling  to  their  fall. 

From   out   the   misty  marsh-lands  next 
the  main. 
Long  lines  of   curlews  in  the  sunset 
flame, 
With  dissonant  noises  came ; 

O'erswept    the    tombs    in    slow,    high- 
wheeling  flight. 
And  while  the  sunset  verged  on  eve- 
ning's gray. 
Faded,  ghostlike,  away. 

Yet  down  the  dusky,  shimmering,  weird 
twilight 
(Though  lost  their  forms  beyond  the 
outmost,  hill). 
Their  strange  cries  sounded  still:  — 

Prolonged   by    elfin    echoes,    'mid    the 
rocks. 
Or  lapsing  in   sad,  plaintive  wails  to 
die 
'Twixt  darkling  wave  and  sky. 


The  garrulous  sparrows,  in  home-wend- 
ing flocks, 
Sought  their  rude  nests  among  those 
shattered  tombs, 
Veiled  now  in  vesper  glooms ; 

Till  o'er  the  scene   a  mystic   influence 
stole; 
The  wave-enamored  winds  their  pin- 
ions furled ; 
Pale  Silence  clasped  the  world. 

Beside  a  grave,  the  lowliest  of  the  whole 
Obscure  republic  of  the  tameless  dead, 
Pausing,  I  mused,  and  said:  — 

All  graves  are  equal !     His,  the  laurelled, 
great, 
Miraculous  Shakspeare's.  some  far  day 
shall  rest 
As  level  on  Earth's  breast.  — 

And  all   unknown — through   stern  be- 
hests of  Fate  — 
As    this,    round   which    the    rustling 
dock-leaves  meet 
Here,  tangled  at  my  feet. 

All  graves  are   equal   to   all-conquering 
Time; 
Scornful,    he   laughs    at  monumental 
stones,  — 
Wasting  a  great  man's  bones, 

A  great  man's  sepulchre,  though  reared 
sublime 
Toward  heaven,  until  both  stone  and 
record  pass. 
Mocked  by  the  flippant  grass ; 

The  feeblest  weeds  in  Nature  flaunting 
high 
Above  a  Shakespeare's  or  a  Dante's 
dust :  — 
Just  then  a  gentle  gust 

Breathed    from   beyond   the   gloaming: 
Night's  first  sigh 
Of  conscious  life  touched  the  awakened 
trees. 
And  blended  with  the  sea's 


TRISTRAM   OF   THE    WOOD. 


245 


Monotonous   murmur,  seemed  to  whis- 
per low : 
"I  rise,  and  sink,  am  born,  and  lose 
my  breath, 
Yet  am  not  held  by  Death. 

"For  since  the  world  began  —  when  sun- 
set's glow 
Melts  in  the  western  tides  —  my  air  of 
balm 
Eises,  if  earth  be  calm.* 

"  My  spell  is  sacred,  wheresoe'er  it  falls; 
The  dreariest  graves  grow  brighter  at 
my  voice, 
And  human  hearts  rejoice, 

"Because  that  I,  winged  from  these  twi- 
light halls. 
In  this,  my  life  renewed,  would  subtly 
seem 
A  sweet,  half-uttered  dream 

"  Of  immortality,  made  bright  by  love: 
That  love  which  binds  the  humblest 
human  clod 
Fast  to  the  throne  of  God."' 

I  left  the    graves;    but    now  my  gaze 
above 
Ranged  through  the  heavenly  spaces, 
clear  and  far; 
I  marked  the  vesper  star 

Silver  the  edges  of  the  wavering  mist. 
And  centred  in  an  air-wrought,  lumi- 
nous isle 
Of  lambent  glory,  smile ;  — 

Smile  like  an  angel  whom  the  Lord  hath 
kissed, 
And  freed  from  arms  divine,  in  soft 
release, 
To  bless  our  earth  with  peace. 

*  What  dweller  by  the  ocean  can  have  failed 
to  remark  the  almost  invariable  rising,  just 
after  sunset  on  quiet  evenings,  of  this  gentle 
air,  a  very  sigh  of  tranquillity,  a  breath,  as  it 
"were,  from  God? 


WINTER  ROSE. 

God'  s  benison  upon  each  happy  day 
Dead  now  and  gone!  —  its  gentle  ghost 

our  feet 
Doth  follow,   singing  faintly;  and  how 

sweet  — 
Tenderly  sweet,  as  through  a  luminous 

mist  — 
Its   shadowy   lips   draw  near   us.  to   be 

kissed ! 
And  though  they  melt  upon  the  yearning 

mouth 
Like  fairy  balm  from  some  phantasmal 

south, 
Their  touch  is  magic;  and  we  feel  the 

start 
As   of   an   unsealed   fountain,    close   at 

heart  — 
Till,  warmed,  restored,  breathing  a  tine 

repose, 
Our  innermost  nature,  wakening,  glows 

anew ; 
While,  gemmed  by  sunset  memory's  ra- 
diant dew, 
Lo!   the  heart  blossoms,  like  a  Winter 

Bose! 


TRISTRAM  OF   THE    WOOD. 

0>tce,  when  the  autumn  fields  were  dim 

and  wet, 
The  trumpets  rang;  the  tide  of  battle  set 
Toward     gray     Broceliande.    by     the 

western  sea. 

In    the    fore-front    of     conflict    grimly 

stood. 
Clothed  in  dark  armor.  Tristram  of  the 

Wood, 
And  round  him  ranged  his  knights  of 

Brittany. 

Of  lordlier  frame  than  even  the  lordliest 

there, 
Firm  as  a  tower,  upon  his  vast  destrere, 
He    looked    as   one    whose    soid   was 

steened  in  trance. 


>46 


LATER   POEMS. 


Ne'er  spake  nor  stirred  he,  though  the 

trumpet's  sound 
Echoed   abroad,   and   all   the   glittering 

ground 
Shook  to  the  steel-clad  warriors'  swift 

advance ; 

Ne'er  spake  nor  stirred  he,  for  the  mys- 
tic hour 

Closed  o'er  him  then;  the  glamour  of  its 
power 
Dream-wrought,   and   sadly  beautiful 
with  love  — 

Love  of  the  lost  Iseult.     In  marvellous 

stead 
Of  thronging  faces,  with  looks  stern  and 

dread. 
Through   the  dense  dust,  the  hostile 

plumes  above, 

He  saw  his  fair,  lost  Iseult's  passionate 

eyes, 
And  o'er  the  crash  of  lances  heard  her 

cries, 
.Shrill   with   despair,    when   last  they 

twain  did  part. 

While  others  thrilled  to  strife,  he,  thrilled 

with  woe. 
Felt  his  life-currents  shuddering  cold  and 

low 
Round  the  worn  bastions  of  his  broken 

heart. 

Then  rolled  his  way  the  battle's  furious 

flood; 
Squadrons    charged    on    him    blindly; 

blows  and  blood 
Showered  down  like  hail   and  water; 

vainly  drew 

The  whole   war    round    him;    still  his 

broadsword's  gleam 
Flashed   in  death's  front,  and  still,   as 

wrapped  in  dream, 
He  fought  and  slew,  witting  not  whom 

he  slew, 


Nor  knew  whose  arm  had  smitten  him 

deep  and  sore  — 
So    deep    that    Tristram    never,    never 

more 
Shone  in  the  van  of  conflict;  but  the 

smart 

Of  his  fierce  wound  tortured  him  night 

and  day, 
Till,  through  God's  grace,  his  life-blood 

ebbed  away, 
And   death's  sweet   quiet  healed   his 

broken  heart. 


HINTS  OF  SPUING. 

[COMPOSED  IN   SK'KXESS.] 

"  "vTben  the  hill-side  breaks  into  green,  every 
hollow  of  bine  shade,  every  curve  of  tuft,  and 
plume  and  tendril,  every  broken  sunbeam  on 
spray  of  young  leaves  is  new!  No  spring 
is  a  representation  of  any  former  spring!"  — 
Goethe. 

A  softentng  of  the  misty  heaven, 

A  subtle  murmur  in  the  air; 

The  electric  flash  through  coverts  old 

Of  many  a  shy  wing,  touched  with  gold ; 

The  stream's  unmulfled  voice,  that  calls, 

Now  shrill  and  clear,  now  silvery  low, 

As  if  a  fairy  flute  did  blow 

Above  the  sylvan  waterfalls ; 

Each   mellowed   sound,  each   quivering 

wing 
Heralds  the  happy-hearted  Spring: 
Earth's  best  beloved  is  drawing  near. 

Amid  the  deepest  woodland  dells. 

So  late  forlornly  cold  and  drear, 

Wafts  of  mild  fervor,  procreant  breaths 

Of  gentle  heat,  unclose  the  sheaths 

Of  fresh-formed  buds  on  bower  and  tree; 

A  spirit  of  soft  revival  looks 

Coyly  from  out  the  young-leaved  nooks, 

Just  dimpling  into  greenery; 

Through  flashes  of  faint  primrose  bloom, 

Through    delicate    gleam    and    golden 

gloom, 
The  wonder  of  the  world  draws  near. 


THE   HAWK.  — THE    TRUE   HEAVEN. 


247 


On  some  dew-sprinkled,  cloudless  morn, 
She,  in  her  full-blown  joyance  rare, 
Will  pass  beyond  her  Orient  gate, 
Smiling,  serene,  calmly  elate, 
All  garmented  in  light  and  grace : 
Her  footsteps  on  the  hills  shall  shine 
In  beauty,  and  her  matchless  face 
Make  the  fair  vales  of  earth  divine. 
O  goddess  of  the  azure  eyes, 
The  deep,  deep  charm  that  never  dies, 
Delay  not  long,  delay  not  long ! 
Come  clad  in  perfume,  glad  with  song, 
Breathe  on  me  from  thy  perfect  lips, 
Lest  mine  be  closed,  and  death's  eclipse 
Rise  dark  between 
Me  and  thine  advent,  tender  queen, 
Albeit  thou  art  so  near,  so  near ! 


THE  HAWK. 

Ambushed  in  yonder  cloud  of  white, 
Far-glittering  from  its  azure  height, 
He  shrouds  his  swiftness  and  his  might ! 

But  oft  across  the  echoing  sky, 
Long-drawn,  though  uttered  suddenly, 
"We  hear  his  strange,  shrill,  bodeful  cry. 

Winged  robber!  in  his  vaporous  tower 
Secure  in  craft,  as  strong  in  power, 
Coolly  he  bides  the  fated  horn-, 

When  thro'  cloud-rifts  of  shadowy  rise, 
Earthward  are  bent  his  ruthless  eyes, 
Where,  blind  to  doom,  the  quarry  lies ! 

And  from  dense  cloud  to  noontide  glow, 
(His  fiery  gaze  still  fixed  below), 
He  sails  on  pinions  proud  and  slow ! 

Till,  like  a  fierce,  embodied  ray, 

He  hurtles  down  the  dazzling  day,  — 

A  death-flash  on  his  startled  prey ; 

And  where  but  now  a  nest  was  found, 

Voiceful,  beside  its  grassy  mound, 

A  few  brown  feathers  strew  the  ground ! 


OVER    THE    WATERS. 
I. 

Over  the  crystal  waters 
She  leans  in  careless  grace, 

Smiling  to  view  within  them 
Her  own  fair  happy  face. 


The  waves  that  glass  her  beauty 
No  tiniest  ripple  stirs : 

What  human  heart  thus  coldly 
Could  mirror  grace  like  hers  ? 


THE    TRUE  HEAVEN. 

The  bliss  for  which  our  spirits  pine, 
That  bliss  we  feel  shall  yet  be  given, 

Somehow,  in  some  far  realm  divine, 
Some    marvellous     state    we    call    a 
heaven. 

Is  not  the  bliss  of  languorous  hours 
A  glory  of  calm,  measured  range, 

But  life  which  feeds  our  noblest  powers 
On  wonders  of  eternal  change  ? 

A  heaven  of  action,  freed  from  strife, 
With  ampler  ether  for  the  scope 

Of  an  immeasurable  life 
And  an  unbaffled,  boundless  hope. 

A  heaven  wherein  all  discords  cease, 
Self-torment,  doubt,  distress,  turmoil, 

The  core  of  whose  majestic  peace 
7s  godlike  power  of  tireless  toil. 

Toil,  without  tumult,  strain  or  jar, 
With  grandest  reach  of  range  endued. 

Unchecked  by  even  the  farthest  star 
That  trembles  thro'  infinitude ; 

In  which  to  soar  to  higher  heights 

Through    widening    ethers   stretched 
abroad, 

Till  in  our  onward,  upward  flights 
We  touch  at  last  the  feet  of  God. 


24s 


LATER   POEMS. 


Time  swallowed  in  eternity! 

No  future  evermore;  no  past, 
But  one  unending  now,  to  be 

A  boundless  circle  round  us  cast! 


THE   BREEZES   OF  JUNE. 

Oh  !  sweet  and  soft, 
Beturning  oft, 
As  oft  tbey  pass  benignly. 
The  warm  June  breezes  come  and  go, 
Through  golden   rounds  of  murmurous 
flow, 
At  length  to  sigh, 
Wax  faint  and  die. 
Far  down  the  panting  primrose  sky, 
Divinely! 

Though  soft  and  low 
These  breezes  blow, 
Their  voice  is  passion' s  wholly ; 
And  ah !  our  hearts  go  forth  to  meet 
The  burden  of  their  music  sweet, 
Ere  yet  it  sighs, 
Faints,  falters,  dies, 
Down  the  rich  path  of  sunset  skies  — 
Half  glad,  half  melancholy! 

Bend,  bend  thine  ear! 
Oh !  hark  and  hear 
What  vows  each  blithe  new-comer, 
Each  warm  June  breeze  that  comes  and 

goes, 
Is  whispering  to  the  royal  rose, 

And  star-pale  lily,  trembling  nigh, 
Ere  yet  in  subtlest  harmony 
Its  murmurs  die, 
Wax  faint  and  die, 
On  thy  flushed  bosom,  passionate  sky, 
Of  youthful  summer! 


A  MOUNTAIN  FANCY. 

[Respectfully  inscribed  to  Mrs.  R.  S.  Storrs.] 

Close  to  each  mountain's  towering  peak 
A  white  cloud  leans  its  tearful  cheek, 
Till  all  its  soul  of  mystic  pain 
Dissolves  in  slow,  soft,  vaporous  rain. 


Thus,  when  our  heart-griefs  seek  aright 
Some     heavenly      Thought's     majestic 

height, 
Their  passion,  touched  by  loftier  air. 
Dissolves  in  tender  mists  of  prayer ! 

Jefferson  Hill  House,  White  Mountains,  X.H., 
September,  1879. 


ABSENCE  AND  LOVE. 

We  need  the  clasp  of  hand  in  hand, 
The  light  flashed  warm  from  neighbor- 
ing eyes : 
Or  else  as  weary  seasons  pass  — 
Alas !  alas ! 
Our  tenderest    love   grows   wan    and 
dies. 

The  fatal  years  like  seas  expand 
'Twixt   souls    that    long  have   dwelt 
apart. 
Till,  broadening  o'er  our  being's  verge, 
The  ruthless  surge 
Love's  memory  sweeps  from  out  the 
heart. 

I   O  Absence!  thou  unreverenced  Death ! 
Thy  dense,  unconsecrated  clay 
Inurns  affection  past  regret; 
No  hint  is  set 
Thereon  of  Besurrection  Day. 


THE   FALLEN  PINE-CONE. 

I  lift  thee,  thus,  thou  brown  and  rug- 
ged cone, 
AVell  poised  and  high. 
Between  the  flowering  grasses  and  the 
sky; 
And,  as  sea-voices  dwell 
In  the  fine  chambers  of  the  ocean-shell, 

So  fancy's  ear 
Within  thy  numberless,  dim  complexities 

Hath  seemed  ofttimes  to  hear 
The  imprisoned  spirits  of  all  winds  that 

blow; 
Winds   of  late  autumn  that  lamenting 
moan 


STERN  TRUTHS    TRANSFIGURED.  — HORIZONS. 


249 


Across  the  wild  sea-surges'  ebb  and  flow; 

Storm-winds  of  winter  mellowed  to  a 
sigh, 

Long-drawn  and  plaintive;  or  —  how 
lingeringly !  — 

Soft  echoes  of  the  spring-tide's  jocund 
breeze, 

Blent  with  the  summer  south  wind,  mur- 
muring low! 

What   wonder,    fairy    cone,   that    thou 

should'  st  hold 
The  semblance  of  these  voices  ?  day  and 

night, 
Proudly  enthroned  upon   the  wavering 

height 
Of    yon    monarchal    pine,    thou    did'st 

absorb 
The  elemental  virtues  of  all  airs, 

Timid  or  bold, 
Measures  of  gentle  joys  and  wild  despairs, 
Breathed  from  all  quarters  of  our  change- 
ful orb; 
Whether  with  mildness  freighted  or  with 

might. 
Into  thy  form  they  entered,  to  remain 
Each  the  strange  phantom  of  a  perished 

tone, 
An  eerie,  marvellous  strain 
Pent  in  tins  tiny  Hades  made  to  fold 
Ghosts  of  the  heavenly  couriers  long  ago, 
Sunk  as  men  dreamed  by  ocean  and  by 

shore, 
Into  the  void  of  silence  evermore ! 


STERN  TRUTHS   TRANSFIGURED. 

Those  mountain  forms  of  giant  girth 
Are  rooted  deep  in  moveless  earth; 
But    lo!    their   yearning   heights  with- 
drawn. 
Are  melting  in  soft  seas  of  dawn. 

What  golden  lights  and  shadows  kiss 
Brown  ledge  and  Titan  precipice ! 
Till  all  the  rock-bound,  sullen  space 
Glows  like  a  visionary  face : 


Thus   frowning  truths   whose  roots  are 

furled 
Round  bases  of  some  granite  world, 
May  lift  their  mellowed  light  afar, 
Transfigured  by  love's  morning-star. 


DISTANCE. 

Why  is  it  that  yon  far-off.  mellowed 
horn 

Sounds  like  an  antique  story,  half-for- 
lorn, 

Half-sweet,  with  iterance  of  rare  echoes 
sent 

Up  the  serenely  listening  fii'mament '? 

I  thrill,    soul-smitten  by  each    melting 

tone 
About  the  golden  distant  spaces  blown. 
As  if  soft  pathos  came  on  rhythmic  sighs 
From  out  the  heart  of  vanished  centu- 
ries. 

Distance  is  magic !  in  its  fairy  hold 
Are  alchemies  that  change  even  dross  to 

gold,  — 
While  beauty's  nymph,  too  closely  seen 

or  pressed, 
Melts  to  mere  shadow  from  the  enamored 

quest ! 


HORIZONS. 

I    love   to    gaze   along   the    horizon's 
verge  — 
To  strain  my  sight  where  steeped  in 
golden-gray 
The  sun-illumined  vapors  gently  surge, 
To  melt  in  measureless  distances  away. 

I  gaze  and  gaze,  till  tears  bedim  my  eyes, 
And   tongueless     fancies    haunt   me, 
vague  and  fond; 
Ethereal  boundary !  blending  earth  and 
skies, 
Ah!  dost  thou  veil  some   marvellous 
realm  beyond  ? 


♦250 


LATER    POEMS. 


Deep    spirit    of   mine!    thou,    too,    art 
strangely  bound 
By  far  horizons,  vaporous,  dim,  and 
vast; 
Beyond  the  range  of  whose  enchanted 
round, 
Not   even   the  genii  of  weird  dreams 
have  passed ! 


IN  THE   GRA  Y  OF   THE  E  VENING. 


When  o'er  yon  forest  solitudes 
The  sky  of  autumn  evening  broods  — 
A  heaven  whose  warp,  but  palely  bright, 
Shot  through   with    woofs    of  crimson 

light, 
So  slowly  wanes  with  waning  day  — 
Whatever  thoughts,  pathetic,  sweet 
Are  wont  to  fawn  round  Memory's  feet, 
Pleading  with  soft  and  sacred  stress 
To  be  upcaught  in  tenderness; 
Whatever  thoughts  like  these  there  are, 
Choose  the  weird  hour  'twixt  sun  and 

star, 
Of  failing  breeze,  and  whisperous  sea, 
And  that  still  heaven  o'er  leaf  and  lea, 
To  come  —  each  thought  a   temperate 

bliss  — 
Embracing  the  calmed  soul,  to  kiss 
The  pallor  of  old  cares  away. 

O  twilight  sky  of  mellow  gray, 
Flushed   with  faint  hues!      O  voiceful 

trees. 
Lilting  low  ballads  to  the  breeze! 
O  all  ye  mild  amenities 
Wherewith  the  solemn  eve  is  rife, 
At  this   strange  hour  'twixt  death  and 

life; 
The  death  of  beauteous  day,  whose  last 
Dim  tints  are  almost  overpast, 
Who  lives  alone  in  odors  blent 
Of  every  subtlest  element. 
Borne  on  a  fairy  rain-like  dew, 
Exhaled,  not  dropped  from  out  the  blue; 
The  life  of  stars  that  one  by  one 
Are  mustering  o'er  the  sunken  sun, 


And  wafts  of  vague  earth-perfume  blown 
Up  to  the  pine-tree's  quivering  cone, 
From     heath-flowers     hidden     in   cool 

grass,  — 
Like  spells  of  delicate  balm,  ye  pass 
Into  my  wearied  heart  and  brain. 

What  room  for  any  sordid  pain 
Within  me  now?     Ah!  Nature  seems 
Through   something    sweeter    than    all 

dreams. 
To  woo  me;  yea,  she  seems  to  speak 
How  closely,  kindly,  her  fond  cheek 
Rested  on  mine,  her  mystic  blood 
Pulsing  in  tender  neighborhood, 
And  soft  as  any  mortal  maid, 
Half  veiled  in  the  twilight  shade, 
Who  leans  above  her  love  to  tell 
Secrets  almost  ineffable ! 


THE    VISION  AT  TWILIGHT. 
[To  E.  R.,  October,  1879.] 

Without  the  squares  of  misted  pane, 

I  saw  the  wan  autumnal  rain, 

And    heard,    o'er  tufts   of    churchyard 

grass, 
The  wind's  low  miserere  pass. 

Within,  more  bright  for  outward  gloom, 
I  saw  her  wild-rose  cheeks  abloom, 
And,  deep  as  stars  in  uppermost  skies, 
The  lustre  of  dark  Syrian  eyes ! 

Without,  still  drearier  grew  the  sigh 
Of  the  chill  east  wind  shuddering  by, 
Wilder  the  sad,  strange  moaning  made 
Beneath  the  elm-trees'  rayless  shade. 

Within,  as  if  the  embodied  south 
Had  opened  her  enchanted  mouth, 
I  caught,  through  twilight's  gray  eclipse, 
The  music  from  her  gracious  lips. 

It  breathed  such  sweetness,  purely  deep, 
On  my  dull  pain  it  dropped  like  sleep. 
"  How  vain,"  I  thought,  "  this  gathering 

gloom ; 
Some  heavenly  presence  fills  the  room!" 


AN  HOUR    TOO  LATE.  —  THE   LORDSHIP   OE   COREL 


251 


And    when    her    warm    hand,    pulsing 

youth, 
On  mine  she  pressed  in  guileless  ruth, 
One   moment,    charmed   through   blood 

and  brain, 
I  felt  my  own  lost  youth  again! 

With  quickened  heart  and  lifted  head 
I  viewed  the  vision  near  my  bed, 
But  lovelier  for  that  envious  gloom, 
Her  heavenly  presence  blessed  the  room ! 


Ay  HOUR    TOO  LATE. 

I  have  loved  you,  oh,  how  madly ! 
I  have  wooed  you  softly,  sadly, 
As  the  changeful  years  went  by ; 
Yet  you  kept  your  haughty  distance, 
Yet  you  scorned  my  brave  persistence, 
While  the  long,  long  years  went  by. 

Xow  that  colder  lovers  leave  you, 
Xow  that  Fate  and  Time  bereave  you 
(For  the  cruel  years  will  fly), 
In  your  beauty's  pale  declension 
You  would  grace  with  condescension 
The  love  that  touched  you  never 
When  your  bloom  and  hopes  were  high. 

Ah !  but  what  if  I  discover 

That  too  long  in  antique  fashion 

I  have  nursed  a  fruitless  passion, 

Whose  rage  and  reign  (thank  Heaven!) 

Are  passed  at  length  and  over  — 

That  fate    hath   locked     forever  love's 

golden  Eden  gate  ? 
There's  a  wrong  beyond  redressing, 
There's  a  prize  not  worth  possessing, 
And  a  lady's  condescension 
May  come  an  hour  too  late  ! 


"TOO  LOW  AXD    YET   TOO  HIGH!" 

He  came  in  velvet  and  in  gold; 

He  wooed  her  with  a  careless  grace ; 
A  confidence  too  rashly  bold 

Breathed  in  his  language  and  his  face. 


While  she  —  a  simple  maid  —  replied : 

"  Xo  more  of  love  'twixt  thee  and  me ! 
These  tricks  of  passion  I  deride, 

Xor  trust  thy  boasted  verity. 

Thy  suit,  with  artful  smile  and  sigh, 
Resign,  resign: 
No  mate  am  I  for  thee  or  thine, 

Belny  too  low,  and  yet  too  high!  " 

His  spirit  changed ;  his  heart  grew  warm 

With  genuine  passion;  morn  by  morn 
More  perfect  seemed  the  virgin  charm 

That  crowned  her  'mid  the  ripening 
corn. 
And  now  he  wooed  with  fervent  mien, 

With  soul  intense,  and  words  of  tire, 
But  reverence-fraught,  as  if  a  queen 

Were  hearkening  to  his  heart's  desire. 
She  brightly  blushed,  she  gently  sighed, 
Yet  still  the  village  maid  replied 

(Though  in  sad  accents,  wearily): 
"  Thy  suit  resign, 
Resign,  resign! 
Lord  Hugh,  I  never  can  be  thine. 

Too  low  am  I,  and  yet  too  hi<Jll!,, 


THE  LORDSHIP  OF  CORFU. 

A   LEGEND  OF   1510. 

What  time  o'er  gory  lands  and  threat- 
ening seas 
Fair  fortune,  wearied,  fled  the  Genoese — 
What   time   from    many    a    realm    the 

waters  woo 
Iu  the  warm   south.  "  Who  now   shall 

rule  Corfu  ?" 
Rose  with  the  eager  passion  and  fierce 

greed 
Of  those  who  preyed  on  every  empire's 

need. — 
There  fell  upon  that  isle's  disheartened 

brave 
A    wild    despair,    such  as    in  one  dark 

grave 
Might  well  have  whelmed  the  prostrate 

nation's  pride, 
Her    honor,    strength,    traditions  —  all 

beside 


252 


LATER   POEMS. 


Which  crowns  a  race    with  sovereignty. 

(Sublime 
Above  the  reckless  purpose  of  his  time 
Their   Patriarch    stood,  and    such  wise 

words  he  spake 
The  basest  souls  are  thrilled,  the  feeblest 

wake 
To  some  high  aim,  some  passion  grand 

and  free, 
Some  cordial  grace  of  magnanimity : 
By  such  unwonted  power  they  yield  their 

all 
To  him  that  came,  as  if  at  Godhead's 

call, 
To  save  the  state,  whose  stricken  pillars 

reel. 

How  works  the  Patriarch  for  his  people's 

weal  ? 
Calmly  he  bids  them  launch  their  stanch- 

est  keel  — 
A  gorgeous  galley:   on  her   decks  they 

raise 
Great  golden  altars,  girt  by  lights  that 

blaze 
Divinely,  and  by  music's  mystic  rain, 
Blent  of  soft  spells,  half  sweetness  and 

half  pain, 
Fallen  from  out  the  highest  heaven  of 

song. 

And  there,  to  purify  all  souls  of  wrong 
And  latent  sin,  he  calls  from  far  and 

near 
Xobles  and  priests  and  people.     Every 

where 
The    paths     are    full,    which,    sloping 

steeply  down 
From  the  green  pasture  and  the  walled 

town, 
Lead  oceanward,  where,  anchored  near 

the  quay, 
That   sacred   galley    heaved    along   the 

sea  — 
Her  captain  no  rude  mariner,  with  soul 
Tough  as  the  cordage  his  brown  hands 

control, 
But  the  gray  Patriarch,  lifting  eyes  of 

prayer. 


While  o'er  the  reverent  thousands,  calm 

in  air, 
The   sacred  host  shone    like   an   awful 

star. 

"Children!  "  the  Patriarch  cried,  "If 

strong  ye  are 
To    trust   in    heaven —  albeit   heaven's 

message  sent 
This  day  through  me,  seem  strange,  and 

strangely  blent 
With  chance-fed   issues  —  swear,  what- 

e'er  betide, 
When    once  our    unmoored  bark    doth 

fleetly  glide 
O'er  the   blue  spaces   of  the  midland 

sea  — 
What   flag  soe'er  first  greets  our  eager 

view, 
Our  own  to  veil,  and  humbly  yield  there- 
to 
The  faith  and  sovereign  claims  of  fair 

Corfu.'' 

They  vowed  avow  methinks  ne'er  vowed 

before, 
The  while  their  galley,  strangely  laden, 

bore 
Down  the   south    wind,    which   freshly 

blew  from  shore. 

Past    Vido     and     San     Salvador    they 

sped, 
Past   stormy  heights    and   capes  whose 

rock-strewn  head 
Baffled   the   surges;   still   no   ship   they 

met, 
Till,  sailing    far  beyond  the   rush  and 

fret 
Of  shifting  sand-locked  bars,  at  last  they 

gain 
The  open  and  illimitable  main. 

There   in   one  line   two  gallant  vessels 

rode ; 
From   this   the   lurid    Crescent    banner 

glowed, 
From    that    the    rampant   Lion   of  St. 

Mark's! 


TALLULAR   FALLS. 


253 


Much,     much     they    wondered     when 

athwart  them  drew, 
With  glittering  decks,  the  galley   from 

Corfu, 
Lighted  by  tapers  tall  of  myriad  dyes, 
And  echoing  chants  of  holy  litanies. 

Soon  unto  both  the  self-same  message 

came ; 
For  loud  o'er  antique  hymn  and  altar 

flame 
Thrilled  the  chief's  voice,  "  Hearken,  ye 

rival  powers! 
"Whichever  first  may  touch  our   armed 

towers* 
Thenceforth   shall   be   the  lords  of  fair 

Corfu!" 

Changed  was  the  wind,  and  landward 
now  it  blew; 

Smiting  the  waves  to  foam-flakes  wild 
and  white. 

All  sails  were  braced,  the  rowers  rowed 
with  might, 

But  soon  the  island  men  turned  pale  to 
see 

The  Turk's  prow  surging  van  ward  stead- 
ily. 

Till  five  full  lengths  ahead,  careering 
fast. 

With  flaunting  flag  and  backward-swoop- 
ing mast, 

And  scores  of  laboring  rowers  bent  as  one 

Toward  oars  which  made  cool  lightnings 
in  the  sun, 

The  Paynim  craft —  unless  some  mar- 
vellous thing 

Should  hap  to  crush  her  crew  or  clip  her 
wing  — 

Seemed  sure  as  that  black  Fate  which 
urged  her  on 

Victor  to  prove,  and  that  proud  island 
race 

To  load  with  sickening  burdens  of  dis- 
grace ! 

*  These  "  Towers,"  we  must  remember,  were 
built  in  with  the  substance  of  the  city  walls, 
which  rose  abruptly  out  of  the  waters  of  the 


And  now  on  crowded  decks  and  crowd- 
ed shore 

Naught  but  the  freshening  sea  wind's 
hollow  roar 

Was  heard,  with  flap  of  rope  and  clang 
of  sail, 

Veering  a  point  to  catch  the  changing 
gale, 

Or  furious  lashes  of  the  buffeting  oar! 

Just  then  the  tall  Venetian  strangely 
changed 

Her  steadfast  course,  with  open  port- 
holes ranged 

'Gainst  the  far  town.  Across  the  sea- 
waste  came, 

First,  a  sharp  flash  and  lurid  cloud  of 
flame. 

Then  the  dull  boom  of  the  on-speeding 
ball, 

Followed  by  sounds  which  to  the  isles- 
men  seem 

Sweet  as  the  wakening  from  some  night- 
mare dream  — 

The  sounds  of  splintered  tower  and 
crashing  wall ! 

Then  rose  a  shrill  cry  to  the  shivering 
heaven  — 

"  Thus,  tints  to  us  your  island  realm  is 
given  !  " 

Burst  as  one  voice  from  out  the  conquer- 
ing crew  : 

"  Thus  Venice  claims  the  lordship  of 
Corfu  !  " 


TALLULAII  FALLS. 

Alone  with  nature,  where  her  passion- 
ate mood 

Deepens  and  deepens,  till  from  shadowy 
wood, 

And  sombre  shore  the  blended  voices 
sound 

Of  five  infuriate  torrents,  wanly  crowned 

With  such  pale-misted  foam  as  that 
which  starts 

To  whitening  lips  from  frenzied  human 
hearts ! 


254 


LATER    POEMS. 


Echo  repeats   the  thunderous   roll   and 

boom 
Of  these  vexed  waters  through  the  foli- 

aged  gloom 
So  wildly,    in    their  grand    reverberant 

swell 
Borne  from  dim  hillside  to  rock-bounded 

dell, 
That  oft  the  tumult  seems 
The  vast  fantastic  dissonance  of  dreams; 
A    roar  of    adverse    elements,  torn  and 

riven 
In  dark  recesses  of  some  billowy  hell, 
But  sending  ever  through  the  tremulous 

air. 
Defiance  laden  with  august  despair 
Up    to    the    calm   anil    pitiful    face    of 

heaven! 

From  ledge  to  ledge  the  impetuous  cur- 
rent sweeps 

Forever  tortured,  tameless,  unsubdued. 

Amid  the  darkly  humid  solitude. 

Through  waste  and  turbulent  deeps 

It    cleaves    a    terrible    pathway,    over- 
run 

Only    by    doubtful     flickerings    of    the 
sun. 

To  meet  with   swift  cross-eddies,  whirl- 
pools set 

On  verges  of  some  measureless  abyss, 
Above  the  stir  and  fret, 
The    lion's    hollow    roar,    or   serpent 
hiss 

Of  whose  unceasing  conflict  waged  be- 
low 
The  gorges  of  the  giant  precipice, 

Shines  the  mild  splendor  of  a  heavenly 
bow. 

But    blinded     to    the    rainbow's    glory 

shed 
Fair   as   the   aureole  'round  an  angel's 

head 
Still  with  dark  vapors  all  about  it  furled 
The  demon  spirit  of  this  watery  world. 
Through  many  a  maddened  curve,  and 

stormy  throe. 
Speeds  to  its  last  tumultuous  overflow. 


When  downward  hurled,  from  'wilder- 
ing  shock  to  shock, 

Its  wild  heart  breaks  upon  the  outmost 
rock 

That  guards  the  empire  of  this  rule  of 
wrath ! 

Henceforth,  beyond  the  shattered  cata- 
ract's path, 

The  tempered  spirit  of  a  gentler  guide 

Enters,  methinks  the  unperturbed 
tide ; 

Its  current  sparkling  in  the  blest  re- 
lease 

From  wasting  passion,  glides  through 
shores  of  peace,  — 

O'er  brightened  spaces  and  clear  con- 
fluent calms. 

Float  the  hale  breathings  of  near  mead- 
ow balms, 

And  still  by  silent  cove  and  silvery 
reach, 

The  murmurous  wavelets  pass ; 

Lip  the  green  tendrils  of  the  delicate 
grass, 

And  tranquil  hour  by  hour, 

Uplift  a  crystal  glass. 

Wherein  each  lithe  Narcissus-flower, 

May  mark  its  slender  frame  and  beau- 
teous face 

Mirrored  in  softly  visionary  grace, 

And  still,  by  fairy-bight  and  shelving 
beach , 

The  fair  waves  whisper  low  as  leaves  in 
June 

(Small  gossips  lisping  in  their  woodland 
bower). 

And  still,  the  ever-lessening  tide 

Lapses,  as  glides  some  once  imperious 
life 

From  haughty  summits  of  demoniac 
pride. 

Hatred  and  vengeful  strife, 

Down  through  time's  twilight-valleys 
purified; 

Yearning,  alone,  to  keep 

A  long-predestined  tryst  with  night  and 
sleep. 

Beneath  the  dew-soft  kisses  of  the 
moon ! 


DIVIDED.  — THE   MEADOW  BROOK. 


255 


DIVIDED. 

As  not  a  bud  that  burgeons   'mid   the 
bowers ; 
As  not  a  leaf  on  any  tree  that  grows. 
But  to  its  neighbor  some  uulikeness 
shows. 
Made  clearer  still  through  all  the  blos- 
soming hours. 

Thus   hath   it   chanced   that,  since  the 
world  began, 
Xo  soul  hath  found  its  fellow;  fates 

may  blend 
In  the   close  ties  of   lover,  husband, 
friend. 
Yet  through  some  subtle  difference,  man 
from  man 


Severed,  sees  not  his  brother's  innermost 
life; 
The   lover   his  sweet  mistress  knows 

in  part, 
And   each   to  other  half   revealed  in 
heart, 
Pass  deathward,  the  true  husband  and 
true  wife. 

Shall    heaven  make   all   things   plain  ? 
Xay,  who  can  tell  ? 
Only,     sick    heart!     like     the     sore- 

wouuded  dove 
Seeking  her  distant  nest,  hold  fast  to 
love, 
Till  death's  deep  curfew  tolls  its  vesper 
bell. 


"  Gurgle,  gurgle,  gurgle. 
Over  ledge  aud  stoue." 


THE  MEADOW  BUOOK. 


Gurgle,  gurgle,  gurgle, 

Over  ledge  and  stone ; 
How  I'm  going,  flowing. 

Westward,  all  alone; 
All  alone,  but  happy, 

Happy  and  hale  am  I. 
Clasped  by  the  emerald  meadows. 

Flushed  by  the  golden  sky ! 

Xo  kindred  brook  is  calling. 

To  woo  these  tides  in  glee ; 
I  hear  no  neighboring  voices 

Of  inland  rill,  or  sea; 


But  the  sedges  thrill  above  me, 

And  where  I  blithely  pass, 
Coy  winds,  like  nymphs  in  ambush, 

Seem  whispering  through  the  grass. 

Tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle; 

Hark!  the  tiny  swell 
Of  wavelets  softly,  silverly 

Toned  like  a  fairy  bell, 
Whose  every  note,  dropped  sweetly 

In  mellowed  glamour  round. 
Echo  hath  caught  and  harvested 

In  airy  sheaves  of  sound ! 


256 


LATER   FOE  IMS. 


THE    VALLEY  OF  ANOSTAN. 

[In  ^Elian's  '"Various  History,"  book  iii., 
chapter  xviii.,  the  following  legend,  or  parable, 
will  be  found.  How  vividly  it  recalls  to  us  the 
words  of  the  Master:  "  Unless  ye  be  converted, 
and  become  as  little  children,  ye  cannot  enter 
iuto  the  kingdom  of  heaven!  "] 

An   Orient  legend,  which  hath  all  the 

light 
And    fragrance    of    the    asphodels    of 

heaven, 
Smiles  on  us  from  old  iElian's  mellowed 

page ; 
And  thus  it  runs,  smooth  as  the  stream 

of  joy 
Whereof  it  tells,  yet  with  some  discord 

blent, 
Which,  hearkened    rightly,    makes    the 

music  true 
To  man's  mysterious  instincts  and   his 

fate: 

In  the  strange  valley  of  Anostan  dwelt 

The  far  Meropes,  through  whose  mur- 
murous realm 

Two  mighty  rivers  —  one  a  stream  of 
joy, 

Divine  and  perfect;  one  a  stream  of 
bale  — 

Flowed  side  by  side,  'twixt  forest  shades 
and  flowers 

(Bright  shades  and  sombre,  poison 
flowers  and  pure), 

Down  to  a  distant  and  an  unknown  sea. 

On  either  bank  were  fruit-trees  and  ripe 

-  fruit, 
Whereof    men    plucked    and    ate;    but 

whoso  ate 
Of   the  wan   fruitage  of  the  stream  of 

bale 
Went  ever  after  weeping  gall  for  tears, 
Till  death  should  find  him;  but  whoe'er 

partook 
Of   the   rare   fruitage  of  the  stream  of 

joy 
Straightway  was  lapped  in  such  ecstatic 

peace, 
Such  fond  oblivion  of  all  base  desires, 


His  soul  grew  fresh,  dew-like,  and  sweet 
again, 

And  through  his  past,  his  golden  yester- 
days, 

He  wandered  back  and  back,  till  youth, 
regained, 

Shone  in  the  candid  radiance  of  his  eyes, 

That  still  waxed  larger,  holier,  crystal- 
clear, 

With  resurrection  of  life's  tenderest 
dawn 

Of  childlike  faith;  by  which  illumed  and 
warmed, 

He  walks,  himself  a  dream  within  a 
dream, 

Yearning  for  infancy.  This  found  at 
last, 

Gently  he  passes  upward  unto  God, 

Not  through  death's  portal,  wrapped  in 
storms  and  wrath, 

Bui  the  fair  archway  of  the  gates  of 
birth! 


TWO    SONGS. 
FIRST    SONG. 

Let  me  die  by  the  sea! 
When  his  billows  are  haughty  and  high, 

And  the  storm-wind's  abroad,  — 
When  his  dark  passion  grasps  at  the  sky 

With  the  power  of  a  god,  — 
When  all  his  fierce  forces  are  free  — 

Let  me  die  by  the  sea. 

Let  me  die  by  the  sea! 
To  his  rhythms  of  tempest  and  rain, 

I  would  pass  from  the  earth, 
Through  death  that  is  travail  and  pain, 

Through  death  that  is  birth ; 
'Mid  the  thunders  of  waves  and  of  lea, 

Let  me  die  by  the  sea. 

Let  me  die  by  the  sea! 
When  the  great  deeps  are  sundered  and 
stirred. 

And  the  night  cometh  fast, 
Let  my  spirit  mount  up  like  a  bird, 

On  the  wincrs  of  the  blast. 


SONNETS. 


•257 


O'er  the  tumults  of  wave  and  of  lea, 
O'er  their  ravage  and  roar, 
She  would  soar,  she  would  soar, 
Where  peace  waits  her  at  last: 

Oh !  Fate,  let  me  die  by  the  sea. 

SECOND    SONG. 

Ah,  no!    Ah,  no!  I  would  not  go 
While  earth  and  heaven  are  black:  — 

When  all  is  wildly  drear  and  dark, 
Guard,     guard,    O    God!     this    vital 
spark ! 

But  I  would  go  when  winds  are  low. 

And  distant,  dreamy  rills 
Are  heard  to  lapse  with  lingering  flow, 

Between  the  twilight  hills: 
With  earth,  and  wave,  and  heaven   at 
peace, 

Then  let  these  outworn  pulses  cease. 


SOXXETS. 
OX    VARIOUS    THEMES. 


FRESHNESS   OF   POETIC   PERCEPTION. 

Day  followed  day;   years  perish;   still 

mine  eyes 
Are  opened  on  the  self-same  round  of 

space ; 
Yon  fadeless  forests  in  their  Titan  grace, 
And  the  large  splendors  of  those  opulent 

skies. 
I  watch,  unwearied,  the  miraculous  dyes 
Of    dawn   or  sunset;    the   soft    boughs 

which  lace 
Round  some  coy  dryad  in  a  lonely  place, 
Thrilled  with  low  whispering  and  strange 

sylvan  sighs: 
Weary  ?  the  poet's  mind  is  fresh  as  dew, 
And    oft   re-filled  as   fountains   of   the 

light. 
His   clear  child's  soul   finds  something 

sweet  and  new 
Even    in   a  weed's    heart,    the    carved 

leaves  of  corn, 


The  spear-like  grass,  the  silvery  rim  of 

morn, 
A  cloud  rose-edged,  and  fleeting  stars  at 

night ! 

ii. 

LAOCOON. 

A  gnarled  and  massive  oak  log,  shape- 
less, old. 

Hewed  down  of  late  from  yonder  hill- 
side gray, 

Grotesquely  curved,  across  our  hearth- 
stone lay; 

About  it,  serpent-wise,  the  red  flames 
rolled 

In  writhing  convolutions;  fold  on  fold 

They  crept  and  clung  with  slow  portent- 
ous sway 

Of  deadly  coils;  or  in  malignant  play, 

Keen  tongues  outflashed,  'twixt  vapor- 
ous gloom  and  gold. 

Lo!  as  I  gazed,  from  out  that  flaming 
gyre 

There  loomed  a  wild,  weird  image,  all 
astrain 

With  strangled  limbs,  hot  brow,  and 
eyeballs  dire, 

Big  with  the  anguish  of  the  bursting 
brain: 

Laocoon's  form,  Laocoon's  fateful  pain. 

A  frescoed  dream  on  flickering  walls  of 
fire! 

in. 

AT    LAST. 

In  youth,  when  blood  was  warm  and 

fancy  high, 
1  mocked  at  death.     How  many  a  quaint 

conceit 
I  wove  about  his  veiled  head  and  feet. 
Vaunting  aloud.     Why  need  we  dread 

to  die  ? 
But  now,  enthralled  by  deep  solemnity. 
Death's  pale  phantasmal  shade  I  darkly 

greet: 
Ghostlike  it  haunts  the  hearth,  it  haunts 

the  street, 
Or    drearier    makes    drear    midnight's 

mystery. 


258 


LATER   POEMS. 


Ah,  soul-perplexing  vision!   oft  I  deem 

That  antique  myth  is  true  which  pic- 
tured death 

A  masked  and  hideous  form  all  shrank 
to  see; 

But  at  the  last  slow  ebh  of  mortal 
breath. 

Death,  his  mask  melting  like  a  night- 
mare dream, 

Smiled,  —  heaven's  high-priest  of  Im- 
mortality! 


A    PHANTOM    IN    THE  CLOUDS. 

All,  day  the  blast,  with  furious  ramp 

and  roar. 
Sweeps   the   gaimt    hill-tops,    piles   the 

vapors  high, 
Thro'  infinite  distance,  up  the  tortured 

sky  — 
Till    to  one    nurtured    on    the    ocean- 
shore, 
It   seems  —  with   eyes   half-shut  to  hill 

and  moor  — 
The  anguished  sea  waves'  multitudinous 

cry  — 
It  changes!  deepening  .   .  Christ!  what 

agony 
Doth    some    doomed    spirit    on    these 

wild  winds  outpour! 
At  last  a  lull!  stirred  by  slow  wafts  of 

air! 
When  lo!  o'er  dismal  wastes  of  stormy 

wreck, 
Cloud-wrought,  an  awful  form  and  face 

abhorred ! 
Thine,  thine,  Iscariot!  smitten  by  mad 

despair. 
With  lurid  eyeballs  strained,  and  writh- 
ing neck, 
Eound    which    is    coiled    a    blood-red 

phantom  cord! 

v. 

JAPONICAS. 

Beneath  the  sullen  slope  of  shadowy 
skies, 

Midmost  this  flowerless,  wind-bewil- 
dered space 


(Once   a  fair    garden,    now    a    desert- 
place) 

Ah!    what    voluptuous   hues   are  these 
that  rise 

In  sudden  lustre,  on  my  startled  eyes  '? 

They  glow  like  roses  on  an  orient  face, 

Glimpsed    in  swift   flashes  of   enchant- 
ing grace, 

'Twixt   the    shy  harem's  gold-wrought 
tapestries ! 

Ye    bright     Japonicas!     your    glorious 
gleam 

Tints   with  strange  light  the  enamored   • 
waves  of  air,  ^ 

And  wafts  of  such  coy  fragrance  rouiic! 
you  float 

Fancy     transcends      these     boundaries 
blanched  and  bare, 

For    beauty   lures   her   in    a    ravishing 
dream 

Of  roseate  lips,  dark  locks,  and   swan- 
white  throat! 

VI. 
THE    USURPER. 

Foe  weeks  the  languid  southern  wind 

had  blown, 
Fraught   with    Floridian    balm;     thro' 

winter  skies 
We  seemed  to  catch  the  smile  of  April's 

eyes; 
A  queenly  waif,  from  her  far  temperate 

zone 
Wayfaring — half  bewildered  and  alone. 
Yet,  by  the  delicate  fervor  of  her  grace, 
And  the  arch  beauty  of  her  changeful 

face, 
Making  an  alien  empire  all  her  own. 
So  day  by  day  that  sweet  usurper's  reign 
Gladdened    the    world.      One    eve    the 

south  wind  sighed 
Her  soft  souhout;  the  north  wind  raved 

instead; 
All    night    he    raved;    when    morning 

dawned  again, 
Winter,   rethroned,   looked  down   with 

scornful  pride 
Where  April,  dying,  bowed  her  golden 

head ! 


SONNETS. 


259 


VII. 
DECEMBER    SONNET. 

Round  the  December  heights  the  clouds 
are  gray  — 

Gray,  and  wind-driven  toward  the 
stormy  west, 

They  fly,  like  phantoms  of  malign  un- 
rest, 

To  fade  in  sombre  distances  away. 

A  flickering  brightness  o'er  the  wreck 
of  day, 

Twilight,  like  some  sad  maiden,  grief- 
oppressed, 

Broods  wanly  on  the  farthest  mountain 
crest; 

All  nature  breathes  of  darkness  and 
decay 

Now  from  low  meadow  land  and  drowsy 
stream. 

From  deep  recesses  of  the  silent  vale, 

Night-wandering  vapors  rise  formless 
and  chill, 

When,  loi  o'er  shrouded  'wood  and 
shadowy  hill, 

I  mark  the  eve's  victorious  planet 
beam, 

Fair  as  an  angel  clad  in  silver  mail ! 

VIII. 
A  COMPARISON. 

I  think,  ofttimes,  that  lives  of  men  may 
be 

Likened  to  wandering  winds  that  come 
and  go, 

Not  knowing  whence  they  rise,  whither 
they  blow 

O'er  the  vast  globe,  voiceful  of  grief  or 
glee. 

Some  lives  are  buoyant  zephyrs  sporting 
free 

In  tropic  sunshine;  some  long  winds 
of  woe 

That  shun  the  day,  wailing  with  mur- 
murs low, 

Through  haunted  twilights,  by  the  un- 
resting sea ; 

Others  are  ruthless,  stormful,  drunk 
with  might, 


Born  of  deep  passion  or  malign  desire: 
They  rave  'mid  thunder-peals  and  clouds 

of  lire. 
Wild,  reckless  all,  save  that  some  power 

unknown 
Guides    each    blind    force    till    life   be 

overblown, 
Lost  in  vague  hollows  of  the  fathomless 

night. 

IX. 
FATE,  OR  GOD  ? 

Beyond  the  record  of  all  eldest  things, 
Beyond  the    rule    and   regions  of   past 

time, 
From     out     Antiquity's    hairy-headed 

rime, 
Looms  the  dread  phantom  of  a  King  of 

kings : 
Bound    His    vast    brows  the   glittering 

circlet  clings 
Of  a  thrice  royal    crown ;    behind   Him 

climb, 
O'er  Atlantean  limbs  and  breast  sublime 
The    sombre    splendors    of   mysterious 

wings ; 
Deep    calms    of  measureless  power,    in 

awful  state, 
Gird  and  uphold  Him;  a  miraculous  rod, 
To    heal  or   smite,  arms    His  infallible 

hands: 
Known   in  all   ages,  worshipped  in  all 

lands, 
Doubt  names   this  half -embodied  mys- 
tery —  Fate, 
While   Faith,  with   lowliest    reverence, 

whispers  —  God ! 

x. 

SONNET. 
Written    on  a  fly-leaf  of  "The    Rnbaiyat" 
of     Omar     Khayyam,     the     astronoiner-poet 
of  Persia. 

Who  deems  the  soul  to  endless  death  is 
thrall, 

That  no  life  breathes  beyond  that  mo- 
ment dire, 

When  every  sense  seems  lost  as  out- 
blown  fire;  — 


260 


LATER   POEMS. 


Must  walk,  clothed  round  with  darkness 

like  a  pall, 
Or  on  false  gods  of  sensual  rapture  call ; 
Pluck  the  rich  rose-leaves!  lift  the  wine 

cup  higher! 
Wed  delicate  Instinct  to  malign  Desire, 
(Like  some  Greek  girl  clasped  by  a  bar- 
barous Gaul!) 
Thus   Omar  preached,    thus    practised, 

centuries  since ; 
Wine,    beauty,   idlesse,  orgies   crowned 

by  lust; 
AH  these  he  chanted  in  voluptuous  song; 
Vet    who    shall    vow,    deep    Thinker! 

poet  Prince! 
Thy  rhythmic  creed  the  unnatural  voice 

of  wrong, 
If  man,  dust-born,  sliall  still  return  to 

dust  ? 


EARTH  ODORS  —  AFTER  RAIN. 

Life-yielding  fragrance  of  our  mother 
earth! 

Benignant  breath  exhaled  from  summer 
showers !  — 

All  Nature  dimples  into  smiles  of  flowers, 

From  unclosed  woodland,  to  trim  gar- 
den girth;  — 

These  perfumes  softening  the  harsh 
soul  of  dearth, 

Are  older  than  old  Shinar's  arrogant  tow- 
ers,— 

And  touched  with  visions  of  rain-fresh- 
ened hours, 

On  Syrian  hill-slopes  'ere  the  patriarch's 
birth! 

Nay !  the  charmed  fancy  plays  a  subtler 
part ! — 

Lo!  banished  Adam,  his  large,  wonder- 
ing eyes 

Fixed  on  the  trouble  of  the  first  dark 
cloud! 

Lo!  tremulous  Eve, —  a  pace  behind, 
how  bowed, — 

Not  dreaming,  'midst  her  painful  pants 
of  heart, 

What  balm  shall  fall  from  yonder  omi- 
nous cloud ! 


XII. 
SONNET. 

I  lay  in  dusky  solitude  reclined, 

The  shadow  of  sleep  just  hovering 
o'er  mine  eyes, 

When  from  the  cloudland  in  the  west- 
ern skies 

Rose  the  strange  breathings  of  a  tremu- 
lous wind. 

As  sound  upborne  o'er  water,  through 
some  blind. 

Mysterious  forest,  so  this  wind  did  rise. 

Laden,  methought,  with  half-articu- 
late sighs, 

Wafted  like  spirit-memories  o'er  the 
mind. 

Then  the  night  deepened ;  through  my 
window-bars 

I  saw  the  gray  clouds  billowing  fast  and 
free, 

Smit  by  the  splendor  of  the  solemn 
stars. 

Then  the  night  deepened;  wind  and 
cloud  became 

A  blended  tumult,  crossed  by  spears  of 
flame, 

While  the  great  pines  moaned  like  a 
moaning  sea. 

XIII. 
POVERTY. 

Once  I  beheld  thee,  a  lithe  mountain 
maid, 

Embrowned  by  wholesome  toils  in  lusty 
air; 

Whose  clear  blood,  nurtured  by  strong, 
primitive  cheer, 

Through  Amazonian  veins,  flowed  una- 
fraid. 

Broad-breasted,  pearly-teethed,  thy  pure 
breath  strayed, 

Sweet  as  deep-uddered  kine's  curled  in 
the  rare 

Bright  spaces  of  thy  lofty  atmosphere, 

O'er  some  rude  cottage  in  a  fir-grown 
glade. 

Now,  of  each  brave  ideal  virtue  stripped, 

O  Poverty!  I  behold  thee  as  thou  art, 


SONNETS. 


261 


A  ruthless    hag,    the   image   of  woeful 

dearth 
Or    brute    despair,    gnawing    its    own 

starved  heart. 
Thou  ravening  wretch!  fierce-eyed  and 

monster-lipped, 
Why  scourge  forevermore  God's  beaute- 

teous  earth  ? 

XIV. 

WASTE. 

Hoav  many  a  budding  plant  is  born  to 

fade! 
How  many  a  May  bloom  wilt  with  quick 

decay ! 
Of ttimes  the  ruddiest  rose  holds  briefest 

sway, 
While  heart  and  sense  are  evermore  be- 
trayed 
Alike   in   nature's   shine    and    nature's 

shade. 
Vainly  earth-tendered  seeds  have  sought 

the  day, 
And  countless  threads  of  rivulets  wind 

astray, 
For  one  that  joins  the  vast  main  unem- 

bayed. 
O  prodigal  nature,  why  this  spendthrift 

waste 
Of  light,  strength,  beauty  given  to  earth 

or  man  ? 
Thy  richest  realm  may  lie  in  trackless 

seas, 
Thy  tenderest  loves,  perchance,  die  un- 

embraced ; 
While  faith  and  reason  watch  thy  'wil- 

dering  plan, 
The  baffled  soul's  cloud-compassed  Hy- 

ades! 


A  MORNIXG   AFTER  STORM. 

All  night  the  north  wind  blew;  the 
harsh  north  rain 

Lashed  like  a  spiteful  whip  at  roof  and 
sill. 

Now  the  pale  morning  lowers,  bewil- 
dered, chill. 


Leaning  her  cheek  against  the  misted 

pane, 
Like   some  worn  outcast,  sick  in  heart 

and  brain. 
The  wind  that  raved  all  night,  though 

muttering  still, 
Moans    fitfully,    with    faint,    irresolute 

will, 
Through  dreary  interludes,  its  low  re- 
frain. 
In  desolate  mood  I  turn  to  rest  once 

more, 
Closing    my    senses     to    this   hopeless 

morn, 
This    dismal     wind.      Still     must     the 

morning  gloom, 
Still  the  low  sighing  pass  sleep's  muffled 

door, 
Till  her  veiled  life  is  filled  with  dreams 

forlorn, 
With  hollow  sounds  and  bodeful  shapes 

of  doom. 

XVI. 
DEAD   LOVES. 

Whene'er  I  think  of  old  loves  wan  and 

dead, 
Of  passion's  wine  outpoured  in  senseless 

dust, 
Of  doomed  affection's  and   long-buried 

trust, 
Through  all  my  soul  an  arctic  gloom  is 

shed ; 
And  ah!  I  walk  the  world  disquieted. 
Thou,  my  own  love !  white  lily  of  April ! 

must 
Thy  beauty,  perfume,  radiance,    all  be 

thrust 
Earthward,  to  crumble  in  a  grass-grown 

bed? 
Yea,  sweet,  'tis  even  so !   How  long,  how 

long 
The  dust  of   her  who  once  was   tender 

Ruth, 
Hath  mouldered  dumbly!    And  how  oft 

the  clod, 
Which  binds,  like  hers,  all  perished  love 

and  truth, 


262 


LATER   POEMS. 


Strives  with  pale  weeds  to  veil  death's 

hopeless  wrong, 
Or  through  chill  lips  of  flowers  appeals 

to  God ! 

XVII. 

XATUIiE   AT  EASE. 

I  feel  the  kisses  of  this  lingering 
breeze, 

Warm,  close,  and  ard:,i  j  as  the  lips  of 
love, 

I  quaff  the  sunshine  streaming  from 
above, 

Like  mellow  wine  of  antique  vintages ; 

Now,  serene  nature,  at  luxurious  ease, 

Her  deep  toils  perfected,  and  richly 
rife 

With  subtlest  meanings  —  all  her  opu- 
lent life 

Reveals  in  tremulous  brakes  and  whis- 
pering seas. 

If,  then,  the  reverent  soul  doth  lean 
aright, 

Close  to  those  voices  of  wood,  wind,  and 
wave, 

What  wondrous  secrets  bless  the  spir- 
itual ear, 

Born,  as  it  were,  of  music  winged  with 
light, 

Sweeter  than  those  strange  songs  which 
Orpheus  gave 

To  earth  and  heaven,  while  both  grew 
dumb  to  hear ! 

XVIII. 
THE   CXYDIAN   ORACLE. 

"  What  though  the  Isthmus  lacks  an 

ocean-gate, 
Delve  not  the  soil!  If  Jove  had  willed 

it  so, 
His  watchful  power  had  opened  long  ago 
The  channelled  pathways  of  a  billowy 

strait." 
Thus  spake  the  Cnydian  Oracle  but  too 

late ; 
For   men  are  blinder  than  blind  winds 

that  blow 
Round  midnight  waves,  yet  idly  dream 

they  know 


Some  Hermes'  trick  to  steal  the  goods  of 

fate. 
Fools !  trench  your  Isthmus,  delving  fast 

and  deep ; 
And   as  ye    toil    uplift    your    boastful 

breath 
O'er  swift  inrushings  of  the  turbulent 

sea  — 
Too    swift,    by    heaven!     for,    lo!     its 

treacherous  sweep 
O'erwhelms  the  graded  dykes,  the  oppos- 
ing lea, 
While  ye  that    mocked    at    fate,    fate 

whirls  to  death ! 

XIX. 

THE  hyacinth. 

Here  in  this  wrecked  storm-wasted  gar- 
den-close 

The  grave  of  infinite  generations  fled 

Of  flowers  that  now  lay  lustreless  and 
dead, 

As  the  gray  dust  of  Eden's  earliest  rose. 

What  bloom  is  this,  whose  classical 
beauty  glows 

Radiantly  chaste,  with  the  mild  splen- 
dor shed 

Round  a  Greek  virgin's  poised  and  per- 
fect head. 

By  Phidias  wrought  'twixt  rapture  and 
repose  ? 

Mark  the  sweet  lines  whose  matchless 
ovals  curl 

Above  the  fragile  stem's  half  shrink- 
ing grace, 

And  say  if  this  pure  hyacinth  doth  not 
seem 

(Touched  by  enchantments  of  an  an- 
tique dream) 

A  flower  no  more,  but  the  low  droop- 
ing face 

Of  some  love-laden,  fair  Athenian  girl  ? 

xx. 

THE  WOOD   FAR  IXLAXD. 

I  close  mine  eyes  in  this  lone  inland 

place, 
This   wood,   far  inland,  thronged  with 

sombrous  trees  — 


:.«SI¥i; 


'Now,  serene  nature,  at  luxurious  ease, 

.  .  .  all  her  opulent  life 
Reveals  in  tremulous  brakes  and  whispering  seas. 


SONNETS. 


:>U3 


Our  southland   pines  —  in   whose  dark 

With  flickering  semblance  of  cold  crown 

boughs  the  breeze 

and  pall, 

Mourns  like  a  spirit  shorn  of   joy  and 

Clothes  the  dim  ghost  of  him  just  passed 

grace ; 

away ! 

The    same    wild    genius    whose     half- 

veiled  face 

XXII. 

Dawns   on   the  barren   brink   of  wave- 

MAGNOLIA  GARDEXS. 

washed  leas, 

Yes,  found  at  last,  —  the  earthly  para- 

Fraught with  the  ancient  mystery  of  the 

dise! 

seas, 

Here    by  slow    currents   of   the   silvery 

Whose    hoary     brow     bears     many    a 

stream 

storm-bolt's  trace; 

It  smiles,  a  shining  wonder,  a  fair  dream, 

I  close  mine  eyes;  but  lo!    a  spiritual 

A  matchless  miracle  to  mortal  eyes : 

light 

What  whorls  of  dazzling  color  flash  and 

Steals  round  me :  I  behold  through  foam 

rise 

and  mist 

From   rich  azalean  flowers,  whose  pet- 

A dreary   reach  of  wan,   slow-shifting 

als  teem 

sand, 

With  such  harmonious  tints  as  bright- 

By  transient  glints   of  nickering  star- 

ly  gleam 

beams  kissed, 

In  sunset  rainbows  arched  o'er  perfect 

And  hear  upborne  athwart  the  desolate 

skies ! 

strand 

But  see!   beyond  those  blended  blooms 

Voices  of  ghostly  billows  of  the  night. 

of  fire, 

Vast  tier  on  tier  the  lordly  foliage  tower 

XXI. 

Which  crowns  the  centuried  oaks'  broad 

[Composed  just  after  midnight  on  the  :jlst  of 

crested  calm: 

December,  1878.] 

Thus  on  bold  beauty  falls  the  shade  of 

A  MOMENT  since  his  breath  dissolved  in 

power; 

air! 

Yet  beauty  still  unquelled,  fulfils  desire, 

And  now  divorced  from  life's  last  hectic 

Unfolds  her  blossoms,  and  outbreatbes 

glow, 

her  balm ! 

He  joins  the  old  ghostly  years  of  long 

ago, 

XXIII. 

In  some  cloud-folded  realm  of  vague  de- 

ENGLAXD. 

spair; 

Cloud-girded  land,  brave  land  beyond 

Ah  me !   the  unsceptred  years  that  wan- 

the sea ! 

der  there ! 

Land  of  my  father's   love!    how  oft   I 

With  cold,  wan  hands,  and  faces  white 

yearn 

as  snow, 

Toward  thy  famed  ancestral  shores  to 

And  echoes  of  dead  voices  quavering  low 

turn, 

The  phantom-burden   of   long-perished 

Roaming  thy  glorious  realm  in  liberty; 

care! 

All  English  growths  would  sacred  seem 

Perchance     all    unsubstantialized     and 

to  me, 

gray, 

From  opulent  oak  to  flickering  wayside 

Time's  earliest  year  now  greets  his  last, 

fern ; 

deceased ; 

Much  from  her  delicate  daisies  could  I 

Or  he   that  dumbly  gazed  on   Adam's 

learn. 

fall. 

And  all  her  home-bred  flowers  by  lake 

Palely  emerging  from  the  shadowy  east, 

or  lea. 

264 


LATER  FOE  MB. 


But  most  I  dream  of  Shropshire's  mead- 

With mantling  cheek  and  bold,  imperious 

ow  grass, 

head ! 

Its  grazing  herds,  and  sweet  hay-scented 

Alone  she  lifts  above  yon  desolate  bed 

air; 

A  beauty   past   all   terms    of    raptured 

An  ancient  hall  near  a  slow  rivulet's 

praise, 

mouth; 

The  statelier  that  she  rules  in  autumn 

A  church  vine-clad ;  a  graveyard  gloom- 

days, 

ing  south ; 

When  every  rival  flower  is  dimmed  or 

These  are  the  scenes  through  which  i 

dead ! 

fain  would  pass ; 

A  haughty  Cleopatra!  there  she  smiles, 

There  lived  my  sires,  whose  sacred  dust 

Unwitting    that  her   sovereign    love   is 

is  there. 

lost  — 

Her    Antony!    a      gorgeous    sunflower 

XXIV. 

bloom ! 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Ah!   vain    henceforth   her   beauty   and 

Ah  !  phantom  pale,  why  hast  thou  come 

sweet  wiles ! 

with  pace 

Queen!  art  thou  blind?    Thy  lord  hath 

Thus  slow,   and   such   sad   deprecating 

met  his  doom; 

eyes? 

His   Actium    came    with  winter's  van- 

What!   dost  thou    dream   thy  presence 

guard  —  Frost ! 

could  surprise 

One  the  horn  vassal  of  thy  realm  and 

XXVI. 

race  ? 

THE    AXE    AND    PINE. 

I  looked  in  boyhood  on  thy  clouded  face ; 

All  day,  on  bole  and  limb  the  axes  ring. 

In   youth    dissevered    from    all    cordial 

And  every     stroke    upon    my    startled 

ties, 

brain 

Heard  the  deep  echoes  of  thy  murmured 

Falls  with    the   power    of  sympathetic 

sighs 

pain ; 

In  many  a   shadowy,   grief-enshrouded 

I  shrink  to  view  each   glorious    forest- 

place; 

king 

Therefore,   O    sombre    Genius,   be    not 

Descend   to   earth,   a   wan,   discrowned 

coy ! 

thing. 

When  have  we  dwelt  so  alien  and  apart 

Ah,  Heaven!  beside  these  foliaged  giants 

I    could    not    faintly   feel    thy   muffled 

slain, 

heart  ? 

How  small    the   human  dwarfs,  whose 

Till  even  should  hope's  fruition  softly 

lust  for  gain 

shine, 

Hath  edged  their  brutal  steel  to  smite  and 

I  well  might   deem  beneath  the  mask 

sting! 

of  joy 

Hark!  to  those  long-drawn  murmurings. 

Lurked  that   sad  brow,   those   twilight 

strange  and  drear! 

eyes  of  thine ! 

The  wail  of  Dryads  in  their  last  distress ; 

O'er  ruined  haunts  and  ravished  loveli- 

XXV. 

ness 

THE    EAST    OF   THE    POSES. 

Still  tower  those   brawny  arms;   tones 

A  poyal  rose !    A  rose  how  darkly  red ! 

coarsely  loud 

A  proud,  voluptuous,  full   blown  flower, 

Rise  still  beyond  the  greenery's  waning 

that  sways 

cloud. 

Her  sceptre    o'er    the  wind-swept    gar- 

While   falls    the  insatiate    steel,  sharp, 

den-ways, 

cold  and  sheer! 

SONNETS. 


265 


XXYII. 

BETROTHAL   XIGHT. 

Through  golden  languors  of  low  glim- 
mering light, 
Deep  eyes,  o'erbrimmed  with  passion's 

sacred  wine, 
Heart-perfumed  tears — yearning  towards 

me,  shine 
Like  stars  made  lovelier  by  faint  mists 

at  night; 
Her  cheeks,  sweet  lilies  change  to  roses 

bright, 
Blown  in  love's  realm,  fed  by  his  breath 

divine; 
And  even  those  virginal  tremors  seem 

the  sign 
Of  perfect  joy    through  love's  unchal- 
lenged right: 
O  happy  breast,  that  heavest  soft  and 

fair 
Through  silvery  clouds  of  luminous   silk 

and  lace ! 
O,   gracious    hands,  O   flower-enwoven 

head, 
O'er  which    hope's    charm  its  delicate 

warmth  has  shed ! 
While  smiles   and  blushes  wreathe  her 

dimpling  face, 
Set  in  the  splendor  of  dark  Orient  hair ! 

XXVIII. 

"the  old  max  of  the  sea." 
Grievous,  in  sooth,  was  luckless  Sind- 

bad's  plight, 
Saddled  with  that  foul  monster  of  the 

sea; 
But  who  of  some  soul-harrowing  weight 

is  free  ? 
And  though  we  veil  our  woe  from  public 

sight, 
Full    many    a   weary    day   and    dismal 

night, 
It  chafes   our  spirits  sorely!    Yet,    for 

thee, 
Whate'er,  O    friend,    thy  special   grief 

may  be, 
Bange  thou  against  it  all  thy  manhood's 

might. 


Thus,  though  thou  may'st  not  smite  on 

brow  or  breast 
That    irksome    incubus,    be  sure  some 

day 
The  load  that  blights  shall  droop  and  fall 

away, 
And  thou,  because  of  torture  borne  so 

well, 
Shall  pass  from  out  thy  long,   malign 

unrest 
And  walk  thy  future  paths  invincible ! 

XXIX. 
TWO   PICTURES. 

She  stood  beneath  the  vine-leaves  flushed 

and  fair; 
The  dimpling   smiles  around  her  tender 

mouth, 
Seemed    born  of    mellow  sunshine    of 

the  South ; 
A  light  breeze  trembled  in  her  unbound 

hair; 
No  young  Greek  goddess,  in  the  violet 

air 
Of  vales  immortal,    shone   with    purer 

grace ; 
A  delicate  glory  touched  her  form  and 

face, 
Whence  the  sweet  soul  looked  on  us, 

nobly  bare,  — 
As  Heaven  itself,  unclouded :  —  thus  she 

stood, 
But  when  I  saw  her  next  (O  God!  the 

woe!) 
Love,  mirth,  and  life  had  fled  forever 

more ; 
Prostrate  she  lay,  about  her  a  dark  Avood, 
And   many  a  helpless  mourner,  wailing 

low; 
The    cruel  waves  which  drowned    her 

lapped  the  shore. 

XXX. 
THE    MIGHT   HAVE    BE  EX. 

Oxce  in  the  twilight  hour  there  stole  on 

me 
A  strange,  sweet  spirit !    In  her  tender 

eyes 


•266 


LATER   POEMS. 


Shone   a  far  beauty,   like  the  morning 

skies, 
And  tranquil  was  she  as  a  summer  sea; 
An  air  of  large,  divine  benignity 
Breathed,  like  a  living  garb  of  spiritual 

dyes 
About  her  —  with  the  gentle  fall  and 

rise 
Of  her  heart  pulses  tuned  to  mystery  — 
But,  as  I  gazed,  a  sadness  deep  as  death 
Crept  o'er  the  beauty  of  her  brow  serene 
And  a  faint  tremor  stirred  her  shadowy 

lips ; 
"Thou   know'st   me  not,  "she  sighed, 

with  mournful  breath; 
"How   can'st    thou     kno.v   me?      Lo, 

through  Fate's  eclipse, 
Thou  seest,  too  late,  too  late,  thy  Might 

Have  Been!  " 

XXXI. 
NIGHT-WINDS   IN  WINTER. 

Winds!  are  they  winds?  —  or  myriad 
ghosts,  that  shriek  ? 

Ghosts  of  poor  mariners,  drowned  in 
Northern  seas, 

Beside  the  surf -tormented  Hebrides, 

Whose  voices  now  of  tide-born  terror 
speak 

In  tones  to  blanch  the  boldest  listener's 
cheek  ? 

Hark !  how  t  hey  thunder  down  the  far-off 
leas, 

Sweep  the  scourged  hills,  and  smite  the 
woodland  trees, 

To  die  where  towers  yon  glittering  moun- 
tain-peak ! 

A  moment's  stillness!  Then  with  lus- 
tier might 

Of  wing  and  voice,  these  marvellous 
wraiths  of  air 

Fill  with  dread  sound  the  ominous 
heights  of  night. 

Athwart  their  stormful  breath  the  star- 
throngs  fade : 

How  dimmed  is  Cassiopseia's  radiant 
chair, 

While  Perseus  droops,  touched  by  trans- 
figuring shade! 


XXXII. 

TO   THE    QUERULOUS    POETS. 

Throw  by  the  trappings  of  your  tinsel 
rhyme ! 

Hush  the  crude  voice,  whose  never- 
ending  wail 

Blights  the  sweet  song  of  thrush,  or 
nightingale,  — 

Set  to  the  treble  of  our  querulous  time ; 

Is  earth  grown  dim?  Hath  heaven 
her  grace  sublime, 

Her  pomp  of  .clouds,  and  winds,  and 
sunset  showers 

Merged  in  the  twilight  of  funereal  hours, 

And  Time's  death-signal  struck  its  iron 
chime  ? 

O!  false,  frail  dreamer!  not  one  tiniest 
note 

From  yonder  green-girt  copse,  but  whis- 
pers "  shame!"  — 

Love,  beauty,  rapture,  swell  the  war- 
bler's throat,  — 

The  self-same  joy,  the  passion  blithe 
and  young, 

Thrilled  by  the  force  of  whose  immacu- 
late flame, 

The  first  glad  stars,  the  stars  of  morn- 
ing, sung! 

XXXIII. 
IN  THE   PORCH. 

In  this  old  porch,  fast  mouldering  to  de- 
cay. 

But  wreathed  in  vines  and  girt  by  shad- 
owy trees, 

All  day  I  hear  the  dreamful  hum  of 
bees, 

Soft-rustling  foliage,  and  the  fragrant 
sway 

Of  breezes  borne  from  some  far  ocean 
bay; 

And  oft  with  half-closed  eyelids, 
stretched  at  ease  — 

The  pines  above  me  voiced  like  distant 
seas  — 

I  seem  to  mark  a  coy  young  Dryad  stray 

Out  from  the  tangled  greenery  over- 
head, 


SONNETS. 


267 


Her  brow  leaf-crowned,  her  eyes  of  twi- 
light fire 

Deep  with  Arcadian  mysteries  softly 
shed ; 

And  near  her,  wafted  from  the  ambro- 
sial South, 

A  white-limbed  Nereid,  round  whose 
balmy  mouth 

Breathe  the  wave's  freshness  and  the 
wind's  desire. 

xxxiv. 

THE   PHANTOM — SOXG. 

Ix    museful    hours,   when   thoughts  of 

grace  divine 
Roll  wave-like  up  the  stormless  strand 

of  dreams ;  — 
When  that  which  is  grows  vague  as  that 

which  seems, — 
I  mark,  far-off,  a  radiant  shade  incline 
From  heaven  to  earth, — whose  face  of 

marvellous  shine, 
(Half  veiled   in   mystic   beauty),   softly 

beams 
With     delicate     lustres,     and     elusive 

gleams, 
Caught  from  some  viewless  Eden  —  hy- 
aline :  — 
Ethereal,  as  the  wavering  hues  that  start 
From     chorded     rainbows;  —  lingering 

scarce  so  long 
As  the  last  sun-ray  flashed  in  twilight's 

eye, 
I  hail  this  phantom  of  a  perfect  song;  — 
And  I,  some  day,  shall  pass  the  phantom 

by,- 
To  feel    the   embodied  music   next  my 

heart! 

xxxv. 

SMALL    GRIEFS    AXD    GREAT. 

How  oft  by  trivial  griefs  our  spirits 
tossed 

Drift  vague  and  restless  round  this 
changeful  world ! 

Yet  wdien  great  sorrows  on  our  lives  are 
hurled, 

And  fate  on  us  has  wreaked  his  utter- 
most, 


O'er  wounded  breasts  our  steadfast  arms 
are  crossed ; 

We  front  the  blast,  silent,  with  un- 
bowed head 

And  stoic  mien ;  for  fear  with  hope  is 
dead ; 

And    calm  the  voice  which  whispers: 

"All  is  lost!" 

Thence  to  the  end,  our  being,  stripped 
and  bare 

Of  love,  and  peace,  and  gracious  joys  of 
of  earth, 

Like  some  storm-shattered  tree,  its  with- 
ered might 

May  lift  defiant,  dauntless  in  its  dearth, 

Seeming  Death's  bolt,  that  final  stroke, 
to  dare, 

A  dreary  watcher  on  a  blasted  height ! 

XXXVI. 

THE  SHALLOW  HEART ! 

"'Pity  her,"  say'st  thou,  "pity  her!" 
nay,  not  I ! 

Her  heart  is  shallow  as  yon  garrulous 
rill 

That  froths  o'er  pebbles:  grief,  true 
grief  is  still, 

Deatbfully  solemn  as  eternity 

Thro'  whose  dread  realm  its  silent  fan- 
cies fly 

Seeking  the  lost  and  loved ;  sorrows  that 
"  kill 

Life's  hope,  are  like  those  poisons  which 
distil 

Their  noiseless  dews  beneath  the  mid- 
night sky :  — 

Their  venom  works  in  secret!  gnaws  the 
heart, 

And  withers  the  worn  spirit,  albeit  no 
sign 

Shows  the  sad  inward  havoc,  till  some 
day, 

(Pledging  our  calm  friend  o'er  the  pur- 
pling wine). 

Sudden,  he  falls  amongst  us,  and  we 
start 

At  a  low  whisper,  "He  has  passed 
away!" 


268 


LATER   POEMS. 


XXXVII. 

THE   STOKJIY  NIGHT. 
[Written  on  a  stormy  Christmas  night  (1873).] 

How  roars  this  wintry  tempest,  fierce 
and  loud, 

Borne  from  far  passes  of  the  ice-locked 
hills! 

How  raves  this  desolate  rain,  whose  tu- 
mult tills 

The  whole  dark  heaven  up-piled  with 
cloud  on  cloud ; 

"While  yonder  quivering  pine-trees, 
drenched  and  bowed, 

Blend  their  strange  moaning  with  the 
noise  of  rills, 

And  one  swift  stream,  whose  angry 
clarion  shrills, 

Piercing  the  mists  which  o'er  it  cling  and 
crowd ! 

Roar,  mighty  wind!  rave  on,  thou  mer- 
ciless rain ! 

Uproot,  and  madly  ravage  —  whilst  ye 
may ; 

Your  furious  voices  smite  mine  ears  in 
vain, 

For,  housed  and  warmed  by  this  bright 
fireside  cheer,  — 

Safe  as  on  some  calm  springtide's  calm- 
est day, 

I  mock  your  ire,  nor  heed  your  wild  de- 
spair. 


PERSONAL    SOXXETS. 


TO    IIEXKY   W.    LOXGFELLOW. 

I  think  earth's  noblest,  most  pathetic 
sight 

Is  some  old  poet,  round  whose  laurel- 
crown 

The  long  gray  locks  are  streaming  softly 
down ;  — 

Whose  evening,  touched  by  prescient 
shades  of  night. 

Grows  tranquillized,  in  calm,  ethereal 
light :  — 


Such,  such  art  thou,  O  master!  worthier 

grown 
In  the  fair  sunset  of  thy  full  renown.  — 
Poising,  perchance,  thy  spiritual  wings 

for  flight ! 
Ah,  heaven !  why  shouldst  thou  frorri  thy 

place  depart  ? 
God's  court  is  thronged  with  minstrels, 

rich  with  song; 
Even  now,  a  new  note  swells  the  immac- 
ulate choir.  — 
But  thou,  whose  strains  have  filled  our 

lives  so  long, 
Still    from    the    altar  of    thy    reverent 

heart 
Let  golden  dreams  ascend,  and  thoughts 

of  fire ! 

ii. 

TO   GEORGE   H.    BOKEK. 
Addressed  to  George  H.  Boker,  of  Philadel- 
phia—  after  the  perusal  of  Sonnets  contained 
in  his  "  Plays  and  Poems." 

It   hath  been  thine  to  prove  what  use 

and  power, 
"What    sweetness,    and     what    glorious 

strength  belong 
To  the  brief  compass  of  that  slandered 

song 
We  term  the  Sonnet.     Thine  hath  been 

the  dower 
Whereby  its  richly  fruitful,  fairy  shower 
Of  poesy  hath  flooded  o'er  oar  hearts; 
And   thine   the  dominant  magic  which 

imparts 
Life   to   its  thrilling    music.     Hour  by 

hour, 
My  soul   from    this  small   fountain,   in 

whose  deep 
The  sunshine  of  thy  passionate  genius 

plays, 
Doth  drink  delight,  till  fancy  melts  in 

sleep, 
Charmed  by  the  witchery  of  thy  perfect 

lays.  — 
Not  dreamless,  but  flushed  through  with 

joys  that  keep 
Some  fervent  gleam   of   youth's  volup- 
tuous days. 


PERSONAL    SONNETS. 


269 


in. 

TO  ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 

Not  since  proud  Marlowe  poured  his 
potent  song 

Through  fadeless  meadows  to  a  marvel- 
lous main, 

Has  England  hearkened  to  so  sweet  a 
strain  — 

So  sweet  as  thine,  and  ah!  so  subtly 
strong ! 

Whether  sad  love  it  mourns,  or  wreaks 
on  wrong 

The  rhythmic  rage  of  measureless  dis- 
dain, 

Dallies  with  joy,  or  swells  in  fiery  pain, 

What  ravished  souls  the  entrancing 
notes  prolong! 

At  thy  charmed  breath  pale  histories 
blush  once  more : 

See!  Rosamond's  smile!  drink  love  from 
Mary's  eyes; 

Quail  at  the  foul  Medici's  midnight 
frown. 

Or  hark  to  black  Bartholomew's  an- 
guished cries! 

Blent  with  far  horns  of  Calydon  widely 
blown 

O'er  the  grim  death-growl  of  the  ensan- 
guined boar! 

But    crowned    by    hope,    winged    with 

august  desire, 
Thy  muse  soars  loftiest,  wrhen  her  breath 

is  drawn 
In  stainless  liberty's  ethereal  dawn, 
And  "  songs  of  sunrise"  her  warm  lips 

suspire: 
High    in    auroral    radiance,    high    and 

higher, 
She   buoys   thee   up,  till,  earth's   gross 

vapors  gone, 
Thy  proud,  flame-girdled  spirit  gazes  on 
The  unveiled  fount  of  freedom's  crystal 

fire. 
When  thou  hast  drained  deep  draughts 

divinely  nurst 
'Mid  lucid  lustres,  and   hale  haunts  of 

morn, 


On  lightning  thoughts  thy  choral  thun- 
ders burst 

Of  rapturous  song!  Apollo's  self,  new- 
born, 

Might  thus  have  sung  from  his  Olympian 
sphere ; 

All  hearts  are  thrilled;  all  nations 
hushed  to  hear! 


TO    EDGAR    FAWCETT. 

Art  thou  some  reckless  poet,  fiercely 

free, 
Singing  vague   songs    an    errant  brain 

inspires  ? 
Mad  with  the  ravening  force  of  inward 

fires, 
Whose    floods    o'erwhehn   him    like   a 

masterless  sea  ? 
Xo!    art    and    nature  wisely  blend    in 

thee ! 
Thy  soul  has  learned  from  lays  of  loftiest 

lyres 
What  laws  should  bind  weird  fancy's 

wild  desires, 
Bounded  to  rhythmic  immortality! 
Thus  golden  thoughts  in  golden  har- 
monies meet: 
Thy  fairy  conceptions  reel  not  with  false 

glow, 
Through   frenzied    realms    by  metrical 

motley  swayed ; 
But  passion-curbed,  with  voices  strong 

and  sweet, 
Born  of  regret  or  rapture,  love  or  woe, 
Pass  from  rich  sunshine  to  dew-haunted 

shade ! 

V. 

CARLYLE. 

O  granite  nature;  like  a  mountain 
height 

Which  pierces  heaven !  yet  with  found- 
ations deep, 

Booted  where  earth's  majestic  forces 
sleep, 

In  quiet  breathing  on  the  breast  of 
night  :  — 


27(1 


LATER   POEMS. 


Proud  thoughts  were  his  that  scaled  the 

infinite 
Of    loftiest    grasp,    and    calm     Elysian 

sweep ; 
Fierce  thoughts  were  his  that  burnt  the 

donjon  keep 
Of  ancient   wrong,    to   flood   its  crypts 

with  light: 
Yet    o'er    his    genius,    firm   as    Ailsa's 

rock, 
Large,  Atlantean,  with  grim  grandeur 

dowered,  — 
Love    bloomed,    and     buds    of     tender 

beauty  flowered :  — 
Yet    down    his   rugged    massiveness   of 

will 
Unscarred  by  alien  passion's  fiery  shock, 
Mercy   flowed   melting    like  an   Alpine 

rill ! 


TO    JEAN    INGELOW. 

Brave  lyrist!  like  the  sky-lark,  heaven- 
possessed, 
Thy  glance   is  sunward;   and   thy  soul 

grown  wise, 
Fronts    the    full    splendor  of    Apollo's 

eyes, 
While   following  still   thy  muse's  high 

behest: 
Strength,    sweetness,    subtlety,   are   all 

expressed 
In  thy  clear  lays, — whether  they  dare 

the  skies, 
O'ertopping   radiant  dawns,  or  rill-like 

rise, 
To  thread  with  rhythmic  pulse  earth's 

pastoral  breast! 
Proud   inspiration,  hand  in  hand  with 

act 


Hath  made   thy   winged   feet  beautiful 

along 
The  haloed  heights  of  thine  eternal  song: 
So  near  our  human  love,  though  born 

afar, 
Its    mellow   concord   on    the    listener's 

heart 
Melts  with  the  softness  of  a  falling  star! 

VII. 
TO   M.    i.    i>. 

Your  gracious  words  steal  o'er  like  the 

breeze 
That  blows  from  far-off  southland  isles 

benign, — 
All  steeped  in  perfume,  sweet  as  fairy 

wine, 
Yet  touched  with  salt  keen  breathings 

of  the  seas ! 
What   smiling  thoughts  of  tender  min- 
istries 
Passionless   service,    and     strong   faith 

divine, 
Rest  with  this  pictured  sister's  face  of 

thine, 
And     sister's     love: — (blent     fire    and 

balms  of  ease!) 
O  love!  a  two-faced  shield  of  light  thou 

art, 
Whose  golden-sided  glamour  long  hath 

shone, 
In  wedded   bliss  and   alfluence   on   my 

life; 
A  sister's  love  —  the  fair  shield's  silvery 

zone, 
Turns    on     me     now!  —  thy     deathless 

fervor,  wife. 
Blends  with  the  sweetness  of  this  new 

found  heart! 


MAC  DONALD'S  RAID.  271 


MACDOXALD'S  RAID.  —  A.D.  1780. 

AS   XARRATED  MASV  YEARS  AFTER  BY  A  VETEEAS   OF   "  MARION'S  BRIGADE." 

[The  hero  of  the  following  ballad,  though  a  Scotchman  by  birth,  was  a  determined,  enthusi- 
astic Whig.  Marion's  men,  among  whom  he  served  during  the  whole  of  the  war  for  Indepen- 
dence, regarded  him  with  an  admiration  bordering  sometimes  upon  awe.  His  gigantic  size  and 
strength,  and  a  species  of  "Berserker  rage  "  whien  came  over  him  in  battle,  were  the  means  by 
which  he  performed  many  a  feat  of  "  derring-do,"  characteristic  rather  of  the  Middle  Ages 
than  the  times  of  practical  "  Farmer  George."  Of  all  his  desperate  escapades,  the  raid  through 
Georgetown,  South  Carolina,  with  a  force  of  only  four  troopers  (Georgetown  being  a  fortified 
post,  defended  by  a  garrison  of  three  hundred  English  regulars),  proved,  naturally  enough,  xhe 
most  notorious.  Authorities  differ  as  to  the  origin  and  details  of  this  remarkable  affair.  Some 
inform  us  that  Sergeant  Macdonald  had  been  commanded  by  Marion  to  take  a  small  party  of  his 
men  and  merely  reconnoitre  the  enemy's  lines,  and  that  he  chose  to  exceed  his  orders  ;  while 
others  affirm  that  Macdonald  himself,  acting  independently,  as  he  often  did,  proposed  the  mad 
scheme  of  "  bearding  the  British  lion  in  his  den,"  as  a  charming  relief  to  the  ennui  of  camp  life. 
The  latter  authorities  have  furnished  the  groundwork  of  our  ballad.  "  Nothing,"  observes  Horry, 
in  his  Life  of  General  Marion,  "  ever  so  mortified  the  British  as  did  this  mad  frolic.    '  That  half 

a  dozen  d d  young  rebels,'  they  exclaimed,  '  should  thus  dash  in  among  us,  in  open  daylight, 

and  fall  to  cutting  and  slashing  the  king's  troops  at  this  rate!  And  after  all,  to  gallop  away 
without  the  least  harm  in  hair  and  hide  !  'Tis  high  time  to  turn  our  bayonets  into  pitchforks, 
and  go  to  foddering  the  cows.'  "] 

I  remember  it  well ;  'twas  aiiiorn  dull  and  gray, 

And  the  legion  lay  idle  and  listless  that  day, 

A  thin  drizzle  of  rain  piercing  chill  to  the  soul, 

And  with  not  a  spare  bumper  to  brighten  the  bowl, 

When  Macdonald  arose,  and  unsheathing  his  blade, 

Cried,  ';  Who'll  back  me,  brave  comrades  ?     I'm  hot  for  a  raid. 

Let  the  carbines  be  loaded,  the  war  harness  ring, 

Then  swift  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King!" 

We  leaped  up  at  his  summons,  all  eager  and  bright, 

To  our  finger-tips  thrilling  to  join  him  in  fight; 

Yet  he  chose  from  our  numbers  four  men  and  no  more. 

"  Stalwart  brothers,"  quoth  he,  "  you'll  be  strong  as  fourscore, 

If  you  follow  me  fast  wheresoever  I  lead, 

With  keen  sword  and  true  pistol,  stanch  heart  and  bold  steed. 

Let  the  weapons  be  loaded,  the  bridle-bits  ring, 

Then  swift  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King!" 

In  a  trice  we  were  mounted;  Macdonald' s  tall  form 

Seated  firm  in  the  saddle,  his  face  like  a  storm 

When  the  clouds  on  Ben  Lomond  hang  heavy  and  stark, 

And  the  red  veins  of  lightning  pulse  hot  through  the  dark; 

His  left  hand  on  his  sword-belt,  his  right  lifted  free, 

With  a  prick  from  the  spurred  heel,  a  touch  from  the  knee, 

His  lithe  Arab*  was  off  like  an  eagle  on  wing  — 

Ha!  death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King! 

*  Macdonald  owned  a  magnificent  horse,  named  Selim,  of  pure  Arabian  blood,  which  he 
obtained  possession  of  through  a  cunning  trick  played  at  the  expense  of  a  certain  wealthy  Car- 
olina Tory. 


LATER   POEMS. 


'Twas  three  leagues  to  the  town,  where,  in  insolent  pride, 

Of  their  disciplined  numbers,  their  works  strong  and  wide, 

The  big  Britons,  oblivious  of  warfare  and  arms, 

A  soft  dolce  were  wrapped  in,  not  dreaming  of  harms, 

When  fierce  yells,  as  if  borne  on  some  fiend-ridden  rout, 

With  strange  cheer  after  cheer,  are  heard  echoing  without, 

Over  which,  like  the  blast  of  ten  trumpeters,  ring, 

"  Death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King!" 

Such  a  tumult  we  raised  with  steel,  hoof-stroke,  and  shout, 

That  the  foemen  made  straight  for  their  inmost  redoubt, 

And  therein,  with  pale  lips  and  cowed  spirits,  cpuoth  they, 

"  Lord,  the  whole  rebel  army  assaults  us  to-day. 

Are  the  works,  think  you,  strong  '?     God  of  heaven,  what  a  din! 

'Tis  the  front  wall  besieged —  have  the  rebels  rushed  in  ? 

It  must  be;  for,  hark!  hark  to  that  jubilant  ring 

Of  '  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King!  '  " 

Meanwhile,  through  the  town  like  a  whirlwind  we  sped, 

And  ere  long  be  assured  that  our  broadswords  were  red ; 

And  the  ground  here  and  there  by  an  ominous  stain 

Showed  how  the  stark  soldier  beside  it  was  slain: 

A  fat  sergeant-major,  who  yawed  like  a  goose, 

With  his  waddling  bow-legs,  and  his  trappings  all  loose, 

By  one  back-handed  blow  the  Macdonald  cuts  down, 

To  the  shoulder-blade  cleaving  him  sheer  through  the  crown, 

And  the  last  words  that  greet  his  dim  consciousness  ring 

With  "Death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King!" 

Having  cleared  all  the  streets,  not  an  enemy  left 
Whose  heart  was  unpierced,  or  whose  headpiece  uncleft, 
What  should  we  do  next,  but  —  as  careless  and  calm 
As  if  we  were  scenting  a  summer  morn's  balm 
'Mid  a  land  of  pure  peace  —  just  serenely  drop  down 
On  the  few  constant  friends  who  still  stopped  in  the  town. 
What  a  welcome  they  gave  us !    One  dear  little  thing, 
As  I  kissed  her  sweet  lips,  did  I  dream  of  the  King  ?  — 

Of  the  King  or  his  minions  ?    No;  war  and  its  scars 

Seemed  as  distant  just  then  as  the  fierce  front  of  Mars 

From  a  love-girdled  earth;  but,  alack!  on  our  bliss, 

On  the  close  clasp  of  arms  and  kiss  showering  on  kiss, 

Broke  the  rude  bruit  of  battle,  the  rush  thick  and  fast 

Of  the  Britons  made  'ware  of  our  rash  ruse  at  last; 

So  we  haste  to  our  coursers,  yet  flying,  we  fling 

The  old  watch-words  abroad,  "  Down  with  Redcoats  and  King!  " 


MA  CD  ONALD '  8   RAID. 


273 


As  we  scampered  pell-mell  o'er  the  hard-beaten  track 
We  had  traversed  that  morn, we  glanced  momently  back, 
And  beheld  their  long  earth- works  all  compassed  in  name: 
With  a  vile  plunge  and  hiss  the  huge  musket-balls  came, 
And  the  soil  was  ploughed  up,  and  the  space  'twixt  the  trees 
Seemed  to  hum  with  the  war-song  of  Brobdingnag  bees ; 
Yet  above  them,  beyond  them,  victoriously  ring 
The  shouts,  v>  Death  to  the  Kedcoats,  and  down  with  the  King! 

Ah!  that  was  a  feat,  lads,  to  boast  of!    What  men 
Like  you  weaklings  to-day  had  durst  cope  with  us  then '? 
Though  I  say  it  who  should  not,  I  am  ready  to  vow 
I'd  o'ermatch  a  half  score  of  your  foj>s  even  now  — 


"I  remember  it  well;   'twas  a  morn  cold  and  gray,  .  .  . 
A  thin  drizzle  of  rain  piercing  chill  to  the  soul." 

The  poor  puny  prigs,  mincing  up,  mincing  down, 
Through  the  whole  wasted  day  the  thronged  streets  of  the  town : 
Why,  their  dainty  white  necks  'twere  but  pastime  to  wring  — 
Ay!  my  muscles  are  firm  still;  /fought  'gainst  the  King! 


Dare  you  doubt  it  ?  well,  give  me  the  weightiest  of  all 

The  sheathed  sabres  that  hang  there,  uplooped  on  the  wall ; 

Hurl  the  scabbard  aside ;  yield  the  blade  to  my  clasp ; 

Do  you  see,  with  one  hand  how  I  poise  it  and  grasp 

The  rough  iron-bound  hilt  ?  With  this  long  hissing  sweep 

I  have  smitten  full  many  a  foeman  with  sleep  — 

That  forlorn,  final  sleep !     God !   what  memories  cling 

To  those  gallant  old  times  when  we  fought  'gainst  the  King. 


274  LATER  POEMS. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  KING'S  MOUNTAIN. 

Supposed  to   have    been    narrated  by  an   aged   volunteer,   who    had    taken  part  in  the 

fight,  to  certain  of  his  friends  and  neighbors,  upon  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  conflict 

viz.  Oct.  7.  1830.  ' 

[Written  for  the  Centennial  Celebration  of  the  battle  on  Oct.  7,  1880.] 
Ofttimes  an  old  inan's  yesterdays  o'er  his  frail  vision  pass, 
Dim  as  the  twilight  tints  that  touch  a  dusk-enshrouded  glass; 
But.  ah!  youth's  time  and  manhood's  prime  but  grow  more  brave,  more  bright, 
As  still  the  lengthening  shadows  steal  toward  the  rayless  night. 

So  deem  it  not  a  marvel,  friends,  if.  gathering  fair  and  fast, 
I  now  behold  the  gallant  forms  that  graced  our  glorious  past, 
And  down  the  winds  of  memory  hear  those  battle  bugles  blow, 
Of  strifeful  breath,  or  wails  of  death,  just  fifty  years  ago. 

Yes,  fifty  years  this  self-same  morn,  and  yet  to  me  it  seems 
As  if  time's  interval  were  spanned  by  a  vague  bridge  of  dreams. 
Whose  cloud-like  arches  form  and  fade,  then  form  and  fade  again. 
Until  a  beardless  youth  once  more,  'mid  stern,  thick-bearded  men. 

I  ride  on  Rhoderic's  bounding  back,  all  thrilled  at  heart  to  feel 

My  trusty  "smooth-bore's"'  deadly  round,  and  touch  of  stainless  steel  — 

And  quivering  with  heroic  rage  —  that  rush  of  patriot  ire 

Which  makes  our  lives  from  head  to  heel,  one  seething  flood  of  tire. 

There  are  some  wrongs  so  blackly  base,  the  tiger  strain  that  runs. 
And  sometimes  maddens  thro'  the  veins,  of  Adam's  fallen  sons. 
Must  mount  and  mount  to  furious  height,  which  only  blood  can  quell, 
Who  smite  with  hellish  hate  must  look  for  hate  as  hot  from  hell ! 

And  hide  it  as  we  may  with  words,  its  awful  need  confessed. 

War  is  a  death's-head  thinly  veiled,  even  warfare  at  its  best; 

But  ve  —  heaven  help  us!—  strove  with  those  by  lust  and  greed  accurst, 

And  learned  what  untold  horrors  wait  on  warfare  at  its  worst. 

You  well  may  deem  my  soul  in  youth  dwelt  not  on  thoughts  like  these: 
Timed  to  strong  Rhoderic's  tramp  my  pulse  grew  tuneful  as  the  breeze, 
The  hale  October  breeze,  whose  voice,  borne  from  far  ocean's  marge. 
Pealed  with  the  trumpet's  resonance,  which  sounds  "  To  ho:se.  and  charge!" 

A  mist  from  recent  rains  was  spread  about  the  glimmering  hills: 
Far  off.  far  off.  we  heard  the  lapse  of  streams  and  swollen  rills. 
While  mingling  with  them,  or  beyond,  from  depths  of  changeful  sky, 
Rose  savage,  sullen,  dissonant,  the  eagle's  famished  cry. 

We  marched  in  four  firm  columns,  nine  hundred  men  and  more, 
Men  of  the  mountain  fortresses,  men  of  the  sea-girt  shore; 


THE   BATTLE    OF  KINO'S  MOUNTAIN.  275 

Rough  as  their  centuried  oaks  were  these,  those  fierce  as  ocean's  shocks, 
When  mad  September  breaks  her  heart  across  the  Hatteras  rocks. 

We  marched  in  four  firm  columns,  till  now  the  evening  light 
Glinted  through  rifting  cloud  and  fog  athwart  the  embattled  height, 
"Whereon,  deep-lined,  in  dense  array  of  scarlet,  buff  or  dun, 
The  haughtiest  British  "  regulars"  outflashed  the  doubtful  sun. 

Horsemen  and  footmen  centred  there,  unflinching  rank  on  rank. 
And  the  base  Tories  circled  near,  to  guard  each  tbreatened  flank; 
But,  pale,  determined,  sternly  calm,  our  men,  dismounting,  stood, 
And  at  their  leader's  cautious  sign,  crouched  in  the  sheltering  wood. 

What  scenes  come  back  of  ruin  and  wrack,  before  those  ranks  abhorred ! 
The  cottage  floor  all  fouled  with  gore,  the  axe,  the  brand,  the  cord; 
A  hundred  craven  deeds  revived,  of  insult,  injury,  shame  — 
Deeds  earth  nor  wave  nor  fire  coidd  hide,  and  crimes  without  a  name. 

Such  thoughts  but  hardened  soul  and  hand.     Ha!  "dour  as  death"  were  we, 
Waiting  to  catch  the  voice  which  set  our  unleashed  passion  free. 
At  last  it  came  deep,  ominous,  when  all  the  mountain  ways 
Burst  from  awed  silence  into  sound,  and  every  bush  ablaze. 

Sent  forth  long  jets  of  wavering  blue,  wheref rom.  with  fatal  dart, 
The  red-hot  Deckhard  bullets  flew,  each  hungering  for  a  heart; 
And  swift  as  if  our  fingers  held  strange  magic  at  their  tips, 
Our  guns,  reloaded,  spake  again  from  their  death-dealing  lips, 

Again,  again,  and  yet  again,  till  in  a  moment's  hush, 
We  heard  the  order,  "  Bay'nets  charge!  "  when,  with  o'ermastering  rush, 
Their  "regulars"  against  us  stormed,  so  strong,  so  swift  of  pace, 
They  hurled  us  backward  bodily  for  full  three  furlongs'  space. 

But,  bless  you,  lads,  we  scattered,  dodged,  and  when  the  charge  was  o'er, 
Felt  fiercer,  pluckier,  madder  far,  than  e'er  we  had  felt  before; 
From  guardian  tree  to  tree  we  crept,  while  upward,  with  proud  tramp, 
The  British  lines  had  slowly  wheeled  to  gain  their  'leaguered  camp. 

Too  late ;  for  ere  they  topped  the  height,  Hambright  and  Williams  strode 
With  all  their  armed  foresters,  across  the  foeman's  road, 
What  time  from  right  to  left  there  rang  the  Indian  war-whoop  wild, 
Where  Sevier's  tall  Waturga  boys  through  the  dim  dells  defiled. 

"Now,  by  God's  grace,"  cried  Cleaveland  (my  noble  colonel  he), 
Resting  (to  pick  a  Tory  off)  quite  coolly  on  his  knee  — 
"  Now,  by  God's  grace,  we  have  them!  the  snare  is  subtly  set; 
The  game  is  bagged;  we  hold  them  safe  as  pheasants  in  a  net." 


270  LATER   POEMS. 


And  thus  it  proved;  for  galled  and  pressed  more  closely  hour  by  hour, 
Their  army  shrank  and  withered  fast,  like  a  storm-smitten  flower; 
Blank-eyed,  wan-browed,  their  bravest  lay  along  the  ensanguined  land, 
While  of  the  living,  few  had  'scaped  the  bite  of  ball  or  brand. 

Yet  sturdier  knave  than  Ferguson  ne'er  ruled  a  desperate  fray: 
By  heaven!  you  should  have  seen  him  ride,  rally,  and  rave  that  day, 
His  fleet  horse  scoured  the  stormy  ground  from  rock-bound  wall  to  wall, 
And  o'er  the  rout  shrilled  wildly  out  his  silvery  signal  call. 

"  That  man  must  die  before  they  fly,  or  yield  to  us  the  field." 
Thus  spake  I  to  three  comrades  true  beneath  our  oak-tree  shield; 
And  when  in  furious  haste  again  the  scarlet  soldiers  came 
Beside  our  fastness  like  a  fiend,  hurtling  through  dust  and  flame. 

Their  sharp  demurrers  on  the  wind  our  steadfast  rifles  hurled, 

And  one  bold  life  was  stricken  then  from  out  the  living  world. 

But,  almost  sped,  he  reared  his  head,  grasping  his  silver  call, 

And  one  long  blast,  the  faintest,  last,  wailed  round  the  mountain  wall. 

Ah,  then  the  white  flags  fluttered  high;  then  shrieks  and  curses  poured 
From  the  hot  throats  of  Tory  hounds  beneath  the  avenger's  sword  — 
Those  lawless  brutes  who  long  had  lost  all  claims  of  Christian  men, 
Whereof  by  sunset  we  had  hanged  the  worst  and  vilest  ten. 

We  slept  upon  the  field  that  night,  'midmost  our  captured  store, 
That  seemed  in  gloating  eyes  to  spread  and  heighten  more  and  more. 
Truly  the  viands  ravished  us ;  our  clamorous  stomachs  turned 
Eager  toward  the  provender  for  which  they  sorely  yearned. 

Apicius!  what  a  feast  was  there  blended  of  strong  and  sweet, 
Cured  venison  hams,  Falstaffian  pies,  and  fat  pigs'  pickled  feet: 
While  here  and  there,  with  cunning  leer,  and  sly  Silenus  wink, 
A  stoutish  demijohn  peered  out,  and  seemed  to  gurgle,  "Drink!" 

Be  sure  we  revelled  merrily,  till  eyes  and  faces  shone ; 

Our  lowliest  felt  more  lifted  up  than  any  king  on  throne; 

Our  singers  trolled ;  our  jesters'  tongues  were  neither  stiff  nor  dumb ; 

And,  by  Lord  Bacchus !  how  we  quaffed  that  old  Jamaica  rum ! 

Perchance  (oh,  still,  through  good  and  ill,  his  honest  name  I  bless!)  — 
Perchance  my  brother  marked  in  me  some  symptoms  of  excess; 
For  gently  on  my  head  he  laid  his  stalwart  hand  and  true, 
And  gently  led  me  forth  below  the  eternal  tent  of  blue ; 

He  led  me  to  a  dewy  nook,  a  soft,  sweet,  tranquil  place, 

And  there  I  saw.  upturned  and  pale,  how  many  a  pulseless  face! 


-,A 


lar  i 


, '  -  - 


M^^B 


"  That  man  must  die  before  they  fly,  or  yield  to  us  the  field." 


THE  BATTLE   OF  KING'S  MOUNTAIN.  277 

Our  comrades  dead  —  they  scarce  seemed  fled,  despite  their  ghastly  scars, 
But  wrapped  in  deep,  pure  folds  of  sleep  beneath  the  undying  stars. 

My  blood  was  calmed ;  all  being  grew  exalted  as  the  night, 

Whence  solemn  thoughts  sailed  weirdly  down,  like  heavenly  swans  of  white, 

With  herald  strains  ineffable,  whose  billowy  organ-roll  — 

Thrilled  to  the  loftiest  mountain  peaks  and  summits  of  my  soul. 

Then  voices  rose  (or  seemed  to  rise)  close  to  the  raptured  ear, 
Yet  fraught  with  music  marvellous  of  some  transcendent  sphere, 
While  fancy  whispered :  These  are  tones  of  heroes,  saved  and  shriven, 
Who  long  have  swept  the  harps  of  God  by  stormless  seas  in  heaven! 

Heroes  who  fought  for  right  and  law,  but,  purged  from  selfish  dross, 
Above  whose  conquering  banners  waved  a  shadowy  Christian  cross : 
AVhose  mightiest  deed  no  ruthless  greed  had  smirched  with  sad  mistrust, 
And  whose  majestic  honors  scorn  all  taint  of  earthly  dust. 

Doubt,  doubt  who  may!  but,  as  I  live,  on  the  calm  mountain  height 
Those  voices  soared,  and  sank,  and  soared  up  to  the  mystic  night. 
A  dream !  perhaps ;  but,  ah !  such  dreams  in  ardent  years  of  youth 
Transcend,  as  heaven  transcends  the  earth,  your  sordid  daylight  truth. 

The  voices  soared,  and  sank,  and  soared,  till,  past  the  cloud-built  bars, 
They  fainted  on  the  utmost  strand  and  silvery  surge  of  stars. 
Then  something  spoke:  Your  friends  who  strove  the  battle  tide  to  stem, 
Who  died  in  striving,  have  passed  up  beyond  the  stars  with  them. 

What,  lads !  you  think  the  old  man  crazed  to  talk  in  this  high  strain, 
Or  deem  the  punch  of  years  gone  by  still  buzzes  in  his  brain  ? 
Down  with  such  carnal  fantasy !  nor  let  your  folly  send 
Its  blunted  shafts  to  smite  the  truth  you  may  not  comprehend. 

Would  ye  be  worthy  of  your  sires  who  on  King's  Mountain  side 
AVelcomed  dark  death  for  freedom's  sake  as  bridegrooms  clasp  a  bride  ? 
Then  must  your  faith  be  winged  above  the  world,  the  worm,  the  clod, 
To  own  the  veiled  infinitudes  and  plumbless  depths  of  God ! 

The  roughest  rider  of  my  day  shrank  from  the  atheist's  sneer, 
As  if  Iscariot's  self  were  crouched  and  whispering  at  his  ear; 
The  stormiest  souls  that  ever  led  our  mountain  forays  wild 
Would  ofttimes  show  the  simple  trust,  the  credence,  of  a  child. 

True  faith  goes  hand  in  hand  with  power  —  faith  in  a  holier  charm 
Than  fires  the  subtlest  mortal  brain,  the  mightiest  mortal  arm; 
And  though  'tis  right  in  stress  of  fight  "  to  keep  one's  powder  dry," 
What  strength  to  feel,  beyond  our  steel,  burns  the  great  Captain's  eye! 


278  LATER   POEMS. 


THE  HANGING    OF  BLACK   CUDJO. 

(1780.) 

A    DIALECT    BALLAD. 

The  incidents  of  this  Ballad  are  literally  true.  Our  readers  will  find  them  circumstantially 
recorded  in  Horry's  "  Life  of  Marion."  Captain  Snipes  (Phoebus!  what  a  name)  was  a  notable 
patriot  during  the  Revolutionary  war,  but  is  likely  to  be  known  to  the  future,  rather  as  the  mas- 
ter of  Cudjo,  than  as  an  active  member  of  a  Partisan  Band. 

He  resided  in  the  low  country  of  South  Carolina;  and  Cudjo's  quaint  patois  is  an  exact  rep- 
resentation of  the  broken  English  spoken  by  the  slaves  of  that  section  in  the  ante  helium  times: 

"  Well,  Maussa!  if  you  wants  to  heer,  I'll  tell  you  'bout  um  'true. 
Doh  de  berry  taut  ob  dat  bad  time  is  fit  to  tun  me  blue ; 
A  sort  ob  brimstone  blue  on  black,  wid  jist  a  stare  o'  wite, 
As  when  dem  cussed  Tory  come  fur  wuck  deir  hate  dat  nite! 

"  Mass  Tom  and  me  was  born,  I  tink,  'bout  de  same  year  and  day, 
And  we  was  boys  togedder,Boss !  in  ebbery  sport  and  play  — 
Ole  missis  gib  me  to  Mass  Tom  wid  ber  las'  failin  bret  : 
Aud  so  I  boun'  —  in  conscience  boun',  fur  stick  to  him  till  det. 

"  At  las'  ole  Maussa,  he  teck  sick  wid  chill  and  feber  high, 
And  de  good  Dokter  sbake  'e  head,  and  say  he  surfnr  die, 
And  so  true  'nuff  de  sickness  bun'  and  freeze  out  all  be  life, 
And  soon  ole  Maussa  sleep  in  peace  long  side  e'  fateful  wife. 

"Den  ebbery  ting  de  Ian'  could  show,  de  crap,  de  boss,  de  cows. 
Wid  all  dem  nigger  in  de  fiel',  and  all  dem  in  de  house, 
Dey  b'long  to  my  Mass  Tom  fur  true,  and  so  dat  berry  year, 
He  pick  me  out  from  all  de  folks  to  meek  me  Obersbeer! 

"  I  done  my  bes',  but  niggars,  sir  — dey  seems  a  lazy  pack. 
One  buckra  man  will  do  mo'  wuck  dan  five  and  twenty  black, 
I  jeered  dem  and  I  wolloped  dem,  and  cussed  dem  too  —  but  law! 
De  Debbie  self  could  nebber  keep  dem  rascal  up  to  tau ! 

"  But  still  we  done  as  good  as  mose,  wid  cotton,  rice  and  corn, 
Till  in  de  year  dat  'Nuttm'  tall '  *  (my  oldest  chile)  was  born, 
De  Tory  war,  de  bloody  war,  'bout  which  you've  heerd  dem  tell, 
Come  down  on  all  de  country  yeh,  as  black  and  hot  as  hell ! 

"  Mass  Tom  he  jine  de  Whig,  you  know;  in  course  I  follow  him. 
And  Gor'  a  mighty!  how  he  slash  dem  Tory  limb  from  limb, 
When  fust  I  beer  the  war-cry  shout  and  see  de  flow  ob  blood*— 
I  long  fur  hide  this  woolly  head  like  cootah  in  de  mud! 

*  The  negro  is  a  humorous  creature.  We  have  credibly  heard  of  a  negro  father  whose  son 
being  abnormally  small,  at  birth,  coolly  had  the  ebony  youngster  christened,  "Nuttin'  Tall 
(Nothing  at  all).  We  have  borrowed  so  characteristic  a  name,  and  bestowed  it  upon  Cudjo's  sup- 
posititious "  son  and  heir." 

This  is  the  single  touch  of  fancy  in  the  whole  ballad. 


THE  HANGING   OF  BLACK  CUD  JO.  279 

"  But  Lawd !  I  soon  git  n'used  to  blood,  de  broadswed  and  de  strife, 
And  nebber  care  a  pig  tail  eend  fur  'tudder  folks's  life; 
Only,  I  beerdniy  Maussa  yell  thro'  all  dem  battle-call. 
And  sneaked  dis  big  fat  karkiss  up  betwixt  him  and  de  ball! 

"  Well,  sir!  one  day  Mass  Tom  come  home,  'e  close  and  boss  blood  red, 

And  say  sense  all  dem  Tory  kill,  he  gwine  dat  once  to  bed; 

'  I  needs  a  long  fine  snooze,'  sez  he,  '  so  don't  you  wake  me  soon, 

'  But  Cud  jo !  let  me  snore  oncalled  till  late  to-morrow  noon ! ' ; 

"  Somehow,  my  mine  misgib  me  dem;  so  by  de  kitchin  light, 

I  sot  and  smoked,  with  open  ears,  a  listenen'  true  de  nite: 

And  when  de  f us  cock  crow,  I  beer  a  fur  soun,  down  de  road, 

And  knowed  'um  fur  de  bosses'  trot,  and  de  clash  ob  spur  and  sword: 

"  Quick  I  run  outside  in  de  yad,  and  quick  outside  de  gate — , 
And  there  I  see  de  Tory  come  as  fas'  and  sho'  as  fate; 
I  run  back  to  my  Maussa  room,  and  den  wid  pull  and  push 
I  shub  'um  by  de  side  way  out,  and  hide  'um  in  de  bush! 

'"  He  only  hab  he  nite  shut  on,  and  how  he  rabe  and  cuss! 

*  But  Maussa!  hush,'  sez  I,  '  before  you  meek  dis  matter  wuss; ' 
I  tun  to  fin'  some  hidin'  too,  but  de  moon  shine  bright  as  sun, 
And  de  d — d  Tory  ride  so  swif ',  dey  ketch  me  on  de  run. 

'•  Den.  dey  all  screech  togedder.  loud,  '  Boy,  is  your  Boss  widin  ? 

*  Say  where  he  hide,  or  by  de  Lawd!  your  life  not  wut  a  pin! ' 
I  trembled  at  dese  horrid  tret,  but  sweer  my  Boss  was  fled, 
Yet  when,  or  where,  poor  Cudjo  knowed  no  better  dan  de  dead. 

"  One  Tory  debble  teck  my  head,  another  teck  my  foot 

To  drag  me  like  a  Chrismass  hog  to  de  ole  oak  tree  root ; 

Dey  fling  a  tick  rope  roun'  my  neck,  dey  d rawed  me  quick  and  high, 

I  seed  a  tousan'  million  star  a-flashin'  from  de  sky. 

■"  And  den  I  choke,  and  all  de  blood  keep  rushin'  to  my  head 
I  tried  to  yell,  but  only  groaned,  and  guggled  low  enstead ; 
Till  ebbery  ting  growed  black  as  nite,  and  my  last  taut  was,  sho, 
Dis  nigger  is  a  gone  coon  now,  he'll  see  de  wuld  no  mo' ! 

"  But,  Boss!  I  was  a  hale  man  den,  and  tough  as  tough  could  be; 

Dey  loose  de  rope  and  let  me  down  quite  safely  from  de  tree; 

But  when  I  seed  and  heered  agen,  come  de  same  furious  cry, 

'  Say  where  your  Maussa  hide,  you  dog,  quick,  quick,  or  else  you  die !  ' 

"  I  gib  dem  de  same  answer  still,  and  so,  dey  hang  me  higher; 
I  feel  de  same  hot  chokin'  sob ;  see  de  same  starry  fire ; 
Dey  heng  me  twice,  tree  time  dey  heng;  but  degood  Lawd  was  dere, 
And  Jesus  self,  he  bring  me  safe  from  all  de  pain  and  fear. 


280 


LATER  POEMS. 


"  Mose  dead  dey  lef  me,  stiff  and  cole,  stretched  on  de  swashy  groun' 
While  all  de  house,  big  house  and  small,  was  blazin',  fallm1  roun'. 
When  pore  Mass  Tom  from  out  de  briar  creep  in  he  half-torn  shut, 
To  bless  and  ring  me  by  bote  han'  dere  in  de  damp  and  dut! 

"  And  when  de  war  was  ober,  Boss,  Mass  Tom,  he  come  to  me, 
And  say,  I  sabe  he  life  dat  time,  and  so  he  meek  me  free ; 
'  I'll  gib  you  house  and  Ian'  (sez  he,)    '  and  wid  dem   plough  and  mule,' 
I  tenk  him  kind,  '  but  Boss,'  (says  I,)  '  wha'  meek  you  tink  me  fool  ? ' 

"  '  If  you,  Mass  Tom,  was  like,"  (sez  I,)  some  buckra  dat  I  know, 
Cudjo  bin  run  and  hug  de  swamp  —  Lawd  bless  you!  —  long  ago, 
But  I  got  all  ting  dat  I  want,  wid  not  one  tax  to  pay ; 
Now  go  long,  Maussa !  why  you  wish  for  dribe  ole  Cuj  away  ? 

"  '  I  nebber  see  free  nigger  yet,  but  what  he  lie  and  steal, 
Lie  to  'e  boss,  'e  wife,  'e  chile,  in  de  cabin,  and  de  fiel'  — 
And  as  for  tieffin',  dem  free  cuss  is  all  like  '  lightfoot  Jack,' 
Who  carry  de  lass  blanket  off  from  he  sick  mudder  back! 

"  '  I  stays  wid  you,  (sez  I  again,)  I  meek  de  nigger  wuck, 
I  wuck  myself,  and  may  be,  Boss,  we'll  bring  back  deole  luck; 
But  don't  youpizen  me  no  more  wid  talk  ob  "  freedom  sweet," 
But  sabe  dat  gab  to  stuff  de  years  of  de  next  fool  you  meet! '  " 


CHARLESTON'  RE  TAKE  X. 
Dec.  14,  1782, 


As  some  half-vanquished  lion, 

Who  long  hath  kept  at  bay 
A  band  of  sturdy  foresters 

Barring  his  blood-stained  way  — 
Sore-smitten,  weak  and  wounded  — 

Glares  forth  on  either  hand; 
Then,  cowed  with  fear,  his  cavernous  lair 

Seeks  in  the  mountain  land : 

So  when  their  stern  Cornwallis, 

On  Yorktown  heights  resigned, 
His  sword  to  our  great  leader, 

Of  the  stalwart  arm  and  mind  — 
So  when  both  fleet  and  army 

At  one  grand  stroke  went  down 
And   Freedom's   heart   beat  high   once 
more 

In  hamlet,  camp  and  town;  — 


Through  wasted  Carolina, 

Where'er  from  plain  to  hill 
The  Briton's  guarded  fortresses 

Uprose  defiant  still, 
Passed  a  keen  shock  of  terror, 

And  the  breasts  of  war-steeled  men 
Quailed  in  the  sudden  blast  of  doom 

That  smote  their  spirits  then. 

"  Our  cause  is  lost! "  they  muttered, 

Pale  browed,  with  trembling  lips; 
"  Our  strength  is  sapped,  our  hope  o'er- 
whelmed, 

In  final,  fierce  eclipse; 
And  what  to  us  remaineth 

But  to  blow  our  earthworks  high, 
And  hurl  our  useless  batteries 

In  wild  fire  to  the  sky  ?  " 


CHARLESTON  RETAKEN. 


281 


'Twas  done!  each  deadly  fastness 

In  flaming  fragments  driven 
Farther    than   e'er    their    souls    could 
climb 

Along  the  path  to  heaven  — 
Coastward  the  Britons  hurried, 

In  reckless  throngs  that  flee 
Wild  as  December's  scattered  clouds 

Storm-whirled  toward  the  sea. 


In  Charleston  streets  they  gathered, 

Each  dazed  wiseacre's  head 
Wagging,  perchance  in  prophecy, 

Or  more  perchance  in  dread. 
Horsemen  and  footmen  mingled, 

They  talked  with  bated  breath 
Of  the  shameful  fate  that  stormed  the 
gate, 

Of  wrack,  and  strife,  and  death! 


'  Three  hundred  noble  vessels 
Rose  on  the  rising  flood, 

Wherein  with  sullen  apathy 
Embarked  those  men  of  blood. : 


Meanwhile  our  squadrons  hastened, 

Keen  as  a  sleuth-hound  pack 
That  near  their  destined  quarry 

By  some  drear  wild-wood  track, 
Ah,  Christ !  what  desolation 

Before  us  grimly  frowned ! 
The  roadways  trenched  and  furrowed, 

The  gore-ensanguined  ground, 
With  many  a  mark  ( oh !  deep  and  dark ! ) 

Made  ghastlier  by  the  star-white  frost, 
'Twixt   broken  close  and  thorn-hedge- 
row, 
Of  desperate  charge  and  mortal  blow 

In  conflicts  won  or  lost ! 

Proud  manors  once  the  centre 

Of  jubilant  life  and  mirth, 
Now  silent  as  the  sepulchre, 

Begirt  by  ruin  and  dearth ; 


Their  broad  domains  all  blackened 
With  taint  of  fire  and  smoke. 

And   corpses  vile  with  a  death's-head 
smile, 
Swung  high  on  the  gnarled  oak. 

No  sportive  flocks  in  the  pasture, 

No  aftermath  on  the  lea ; 
No  laugh  of  the  slaves  at  labors 

No  cbant  of  birds  on  the  tree; 
But  all  things  bodeful,  dreary, 

As  a  realm  by  the  Stygian  flood, 
With  odors  of  death  on  the  uplands, 

And  a  taste  in  the  air  of  blood ! 

On,  on  our  squadrons  hastened, 
Sick  with  the  noisome  fumes 

From  man  and  beast  un  buried, 
Through  the  dull  funeral  gloorr 


'2X2 


LATER   POEMS. 


Till  in  unsullied  sunshine 
One  glorious  morn  we  came 

Where  far  aloof,  o'er  tower  and  roof, 
We   viewed    our  brave  St.    Michael's 
spire 

Flushed  in  the  noontide  flame ! 

Without  their  ruined  ramparts, 

Beyond  their  shattered  lines, 
Just  where  the  soil,  bent  seaward, 

In  one  long  slope  decline.-;, 
The  foe  had  sent  their  messengers, 

Who  vowed  the  vanquished  host 
Would  leave  unscathed  our  city, 

Would  leave  unscathed  our  coast! 

Only  due  time  they  prayed  for 

(Meek,  meek  our  lords  had  grown) 
To  range  their  broken  legions, 

And  rear  ranks  overthrown  — 
So  that,  though  smirched  and  tainted 

Their  martial  fame  might  be, 
In  order  meet  their  stately  fleet 

Should  bear  them  safe  to  sea. 

Who  win,  may  well  be  gracious; 

We  did  not  stint  their  boon, 
Though    the    white    'kerchiefs    of    our 
wives 

Were  fluttered  in  the  noon, 
On  house-top  and  on  parapet 

Each  token  fair  and  far 
Shone  through  the  golden  atmosphere 

Like  some  enchanted  star! 

Next  morn  their  signal-cannon 

Roared  from  the  vanward  wall, 
And  to  the  ranks  right  gleefully 

We  gathered,  one  and  all, 
Our  banners  scarred  in  many  a  fight, 

Could  still  flash  back  the  winter  light, 
And  proud  as  knights  of  old  renown. 

With     sunburnt     hands     and     faces 
brown, 

Borne   through   the   joyous,    deepening 

hum, 
'Mid  ring  of  fife  and  beat  of  drum, 
'Mid  purpling  silk  and  flowery  arch, 
Our  long,  unwavering  columns  march; 


i    And  yet  (good  sooth!)  we  almost  seem 
j   Like  weird  battalions  of  a  dream; 
Our  souls  bewildered  scarce  can  deem 

We  tread  once  more, 

Released,  secure, 
j   With  fetterless  footsteps  as  of  yore, 
J    The  pathways  of  the  ancient  town ! 

And  still,  as  borne  through  dreamland, 

We  glanced  from  side  to  side. 
While    mothers,     wives   and    daughters 
rushed 
To  greet  us,  tender-eyed ; 
Each  hoary  patriot  proudly 
Lifted  his  brave,  gray  head, 
I    And    the  forms   of  careworn    captives 
rose 
Like  spectres  from  the  dead  — 

Like  spectres  whom  the  trumpets 

Of  freedom's  cohorts  call 
I    To  burst  their  grave-like  dungeon, 

And  spurn  their  despot's  thrall; 
'    To  take  once  more  the  image 

Of  manhood's  loftier  grace, 
i    And,  chainless  now,  the  universe 

Look  boldly  in  the  face ! 

And  the  young  girls  scattered  flowers, 

And  the  lovely  dames  were  bright 
With  something  more  than  beauty, 

In  their  faithful  hearts'  delight ; 
The  very  babes  were  crowing 

Shrill  welcome  to  our  bands. 
And,    perched    on    matron    shoulders, 
clapped 

Blithely  their  dimpled  hands: 

And  naught  but  benedictions 

Lightened  that  sacred  air, 
Freed  from  the  awful  burden 

( )f  1  wo  long  years'  *  despair  — 
Two  years  so  thronged  with  anguish, 

So  fraught  with  bitter  wrong, 
They  seemed  in  mournful  retrospect 

Well  nigh  a  century  long. 

*  The  precise  period  of  the  British  occupa- 
tion of  Charleston  was  two  years,  seven 
months  and  two  days. 


HE  HA. 


283 


But  if  years  of  mortal  being 

Trebled  threescore  and  ten, 
At  the  last,  our  souls  exultant, 

Would  recall  that  scene  again, 
With   its    soft  "  God  bless  you,  gentle- 
men? " 

Its  greetings  warm  and  true, 
And    the    tears    of    bliss    our   lips    did 
kiss 

From  dear  eyes  black  or  blue. 

Xathless,  despite  our  rapture, 
Down  to  the  harbor-mouth 
We    dodged     the     Britons    doomed    to 

fly 

Forever  from  our  South ! 
They  left  as  some  foul  vulture 

Might  leave  his  mangled  prey, 
And  pass  with  clotted  beak  and  wing 

Beluctantly  away. 

Three  hundred  noble  vessels 

Rose  on  the  rising  flood. 
Wherein  with  sullen  apathy 

Embarked  those  men  of  blood ; 
Then     streamed    their    admiral's    pen- 
nant — 

The  northwest  breeze  blew  free ; 
With  sloping  mast,  and  current  fast, 

Out  swept  their  fleet  to  sea. 

We  strained  our  vision  waveward, 

Watching  the  white-winged  ships, 
Till  the  vague  clouds  of  distance 

Wrapped  them  in  half  eclipse : 
And  still  we  strained  our  vision 

Till,  dimmer  and  more  dim, 
The  rearmost  sail,  a  phantom  pale, 

Died  down  the  horizon's  rim. 

Thus,  o'er  the  soul's  horizon, 

Did  thoughts  of  blood  and  war, 
Through  time's  enchanted  distances 

Receding,  fade  afar, 
Thus   o'er  the  soul's  horizon, 

Our  strife's  last  ghastly  fear, 
Like  all  the  rest,  down  memory's  west 

Did  slowly  disappear. 


TO   THE    AUTHOR    OF    "THE     VICTO- 
RIAN POETS." 

So  keen,  so  clear  thy  genius,  that  no  mist 
Of  subtlest  phrase  can  baffle  or  delay 
The  lance  like,  swift  illuminating  ray, 
Wherewith,  O  art-enamored  annalist. 
Thy  lightning  logic   cleaves  the  elusive 
gist 
Of  thoughts    Protean;    or,   in  lowlier 

play. 
Smites  tinselled  weakness  to  a  red  dis- 
may— 
As  swordsmen  smite  by  one  deft  turn  of 

wrist. 
Yet  oft  that  glittering   and   remorseless 
blade 
Thy  logic  wields  is  dropped  that  thou 
may' st  take 
Some  gracious  lyre,  and  sing  with  liquid 
breath 
By  many  a  haunted  dell  and  shadowy 
lake, 
Where   faun   and  naiad  wander  undis- 
mayed, 
Lays   of    Arcadian    love,    or   painless 
death. 

HERA. 

(IN   THE   HERAEOI.) 

Oxce  between  Argos  and  Mycaeme  shone 
Half-veiled  in  myrtle  and  mysterious 

pine, 
The  ivory  splendors  of  that  holy  shrine, 
Wherein  embowered,  majestic,  and  alone 
Her  sculptured  brow  with  wavering  locks 
o'erblown, 
As  if  by  airs  ethereal  and  divine, 
Smiled  the  calm  goddess  of  Olympian 
line. 
Girt  by  awed  silence,  like  a  sacred  zone: 

Save  that   mild   murmurings   sounding 
vague  and  far, 
From  suppliant  women — through  frail- 
hearted  dread 
Touched  the  shy  pulses  of  that  strange 
repose, 
Till  the  last  petal  dropped  from  sun- 
set's rose, 


284 


LATER   FOE  MS. 


And  gleamed  through  twilight,    like  a 
flawless  star, 
The  chastened  glory  of  proud  Hera's 
head ! 


BELOW  AND    ABOVE. 

I  see  in  the  forest  coverts 
The  sheen  of  shimmering  lights ; 

They  gleam  from  the  dusky  shadows, 
They  flash  from  the  ghostly  heights: 

]STo  lights  of  the  tranquil  homestead 
Or  the  hostel  warm  are  they ; 

But  warring  flames  of  the  Titan  fire 
Which  stormed  through  the  woods  to- 
day. 

Each  darts  with  an  aimless  passion, 

Or  sinks  into  lurid  rest 
Like   the.  crest  of   a   wounded   serpent 
drooped 

On  the  scales  of  its  treacherous  hreast. 

Let  them  idly  dart  and  quiver, 

Or  sink  into  lurid  rest  — 
Ahove,  like  a  child-saint's  face  in  heav- 
en, 

There's  a  sole,  sweet  star  in  the  west. 

Ah!  slowly  the  earth-lights  wither; 

But  the  star,  like  a  saintly  face, 
Shines  on,  with  the  steadfast  strength  of 
peace, 

In  its  God-appointed  place. 


THE    WOODLAXD   GRAVE. 

We  roam,  my  love  and  I. 

'Mid  the  rich  woodland  grasses, 
Where,  through  dense  clouds  of  green- 
ery, 

The  softened  sunshine  passes; 
But  near  a  rivulet's  lonely  wave 
We  come  half  startled,  on  —  a  grave ! 


We  pause,  my  love  ami  I, 
Each  thinking,  "  Who  reposes 

Here,  in  the  forest  tranquilly, 
Beneath  these  sylvan  roses  ?" 

When,  'twixt  the  wild  flowers'  tangled 
flame, 

Wind-parted,  we  heheld  —  a  name. 

We  mark,  my  love  and  I, 

With  thoughts  that  swiftly  vary. 

Of  doubt,  surprise,  solemnity, 
The  flickering  name  of  ' '  Mary ; ' ' 

My  love's  own  name!  —  but   flickering 
there, 

Each  letter  bums  a  hint  of  fear. 

We  shrink,  my  love  and  I, 

Pierced  by  prescient  sorrow, 
"To  think,  my  sweet!  that  thou  niay'st 
die 

To-night  or  else  to-morrow ! ' ' 
Each  murmurs  sadly,  under  breath : 
"O  love,  malignly  watched  by  death!  " 

We  turn,  my  love  and  I, 

From  that  strange  grave  together, 
And  o'er  our  spirits'  darkened  sky 

Roll  mists  of  mournful  weather; 
With  boding  grief  our  hearts  are  rife  — 
Death's  shadow  steals  'twixt  love  and 
life! 


A    CHARACTER. 

"  The  most  impenetrable  mask  for  a  ma- 
licious design  is  —  well-acted  candor."  —  From 
the  French  of  Be  Larrimere. 

Yes,  madame,  I  know  you  better,  far 
better  than  those  can  know 

Whose  plummet  of  judgment  never  is 
dropped  to  the  depths  below; 

Whose  test  is  a  surface-seeming,  the 
glitter  of  lights  that  gleam 

With  a  moment's  rainbow  lustre  on  the 
shifting  face  of  the  stream. 


"  We  turn,  my  love  and  I, 
From  that  strange  grave  together." 


LYRIC   OF  ACTION.  — BY  A    GRAVE. 


285 


Because  you  have  bold,  blunt  manners, 
because  you  can  broadly  smile, 

With  the  devil's  own  art  in  veiling  your 
infinite  gulfs  of  guile, 

There  are  some  who  bring  you  homage, 
who  vow  your  nature  is  free 

And  frank  as  the  life  of  summer,  when 
fullest  on  land  and  sea : 

And  yet  your  soul  is  a  charnel  where 

many  a  ruined  name 
Rots,   festering  vile   and   loathsome   in 

burial-shrouds  of  shame ; 

A  sepulchre  dark,  that's  crowded  with 

ashes  of  old  and  young, 
Dead  fames  you  have   foully  poisoned 

with  your  pitiless  serpent's  tongue! 

Beware !  by  the  God  above  us,  who  part- 
eth  the  false  from  true, 

There's  a  curse  in  the  future,  some- 
where —  an  ambushed  curse  for  you. 

It  will  burst  from  the  wayside  fiercely, 
when  least  you  dream  of  a  blow. 

A  tigerish  fate  in  its  fury,  to  rend,  and 
to  lay  you  low ! 

But  ere  it  has  sucked  your  heart's  blood, 
and  stifled  your  latest  breath, 

The  thought  of  your  victims,  woman! 
will  sharpen  the  sting  of  death ! 


LYRIC  OF  ACT  I  OX. 

'Tis  the  part  of  a  coward  to  brood 
O'er  the  past  that  is   withered  and 
dead : 
What  though  the  heart's  roses  are  ashes 
and  dust  ? 
What   though   the    heart's  music  be 

fled? 
Still   shine    the   grand  heavens   o'er- 
head, 


Whence   the  voice  of  an   angel  thrills 

clear  on  the  soul, 
"  Gird  about  thee  thine  armor,  press  on 

to  the  goal!" 

If  the  faults  or  the  crimes  of  thy  youth 

Are  a  burden  too  heavy  to  bear, 
What  hope  can  rebloom  on  the  desolate 
waste 
Of  a  jealous  and  craven  despair 
Down,  down  with  the  fetters  of  fear! 
In  the  strength  of  thy  valor  and  man- 
hood arise, 
With  the  faith  that  illumes  and  the  will 
that  defies. 

"  Too    late!"    through    God's   infinite 
world, 
From  his  throne  to  life's  nethermost 
fires, 
"  Too  late  !  "  is  a  phantom  that  flies  at 
the  dawn 
Of  the  soul  that  repents  and  aspires. 
If  pure  thou  hast  made  thy  desires. 
There's  no  height  the  strong  wings  of 

immortals  may  gain 
Which  in  striving  to  reach  thou  shalt 
strive  for  in  vain. 

Then,  up  to  the  contest  with  fate, 

Unbound  by  the  past,  which  is  dead ! 
What  though  the  heart's  roses  are  ashes 
and  dust  ? 
What  though   the    heart's  music  be 

fled? 
Still  shine  the  fair  heavens  o'erhead; 
And  sublime  as  the  seraph  who  rules  in 

the  sun 
Beams  the  promise  of  joy  when  the  con- 
flict is  won ! 


BY  A    GRAVE. 
IX  SPUING. 


Ah,  mother !  canst  thou  feel  her  ?  .  .  . 

spring  has  come ! 
Birds  sing,  brooks  murmur,  woods   no 

more  are  dumb ; 


2.86 


LATER   POEMS. 


And    for  each   grief    that   vexed   thine 
earthly  hour, 

SE  VERANCE. 

Nature  has  kissed  thy  grave!  and  lo!  ,   . 

Ah!  who  can  tell  how  strong  the  tie 

a  flower. 

Which  subtly  binds  us,  heart  to  heart, 

Till    the    dark    master,    Death,    comes 

Here  wails  no  nightingale  against  her 

nigh, 

thorn, 

To  wrench  our  kindred  lives  apart  ? 

But    like    the   incarnate   soul   of    May- 

flushed  morn, 

Then,  pondering  on  the  sombre  bed. 

The  mocking-bird   above   thy   splendor 

Where    one     we     cherished    dumbly 

sings, 

lies, 

With    rapturous    throat,    and    upraised 

With  pulseless  hands,  low-smitten  head. 

quivering  wings; 

And  the  wan  droop  of  curtained  eyes, 

Half  drowsed  between  brief  glooms  and 

The  torpor  of  the  death-sleep  cold, 

mellowed  gleams, 

The  mystic  quiet's  awful  spell, 

The  sun   smiles   gently,   like  a  god   in 

Whose  fathomless  silence  seems  to  hold 

dreams ; 

Such  pathos  of  supreme  farewell, 

His    sacred    light   across    thy   place    of 

rest, 

Our  clouded  spirits  throb  and  reel, 

Steals  with  the  softness  of  a  hand  that 

As  if  some  viewless  power  in  air 

blessed ! 

Had  driven  a  keen  ethereal  steel 

Through    quivering    heart-depths    of 

Thro'    magic    ministers    of    spring-tide 

despair! 

grace, 

Thy   grave  transfigured   lifts  a   radiant 

Paled  is  the  dream  of  heavenly  grace, 

face, 

The  jasper  sea,  the  unwaning  calms ; 

O'er    which    elusive    golden     shadows 

We  can  but  mark  that  breathless  face, 

run. 

Those  sightless  orbs  and  folded  palms ! 

A  waft  of  wind-wrought  dimples  in  the 

sun ; 

A  moment  since,  she  softly  spake, 

Her  soul  looked  forth  still  hale  and 

Ah!    if  thy  soul,  that  loved  all  beauty 

clear ; 

here, 

Now,    who    her    wondrous    sleep    can 

May  yet  look  earthward  from  her  holier 

break  ? 

sphere. 

And  she !  where  hath  she  vanished,  — 

'Twill   joy  to   mark,   from  even    those 

where  ? 

heights  august, 

In   what  a  mantle    Nature   wraps   thy 

Ah,    Christ!    yon    shape    of    ice-locked 

dust. 

clay, 

Yon  fading  image,  frail  and  thin, 

And  still  the  brown  bird  rears  his  poet- 

Touched,  as  we  gaze,  by  swift  decay, 

head, 

Shrivelled  without,  and  wan  within, 

And  pours  his  matchless  music  o'er  the 

dead, 

What  is  it  but  an  empty  husk, 

'Till  touched  and  wakened  by  the  mar- 

O'er   which    (at    Death's  mysterious 

vellous  flow, 

kiss) 

I  seem  to  hear  a  thrilled  heart  throb  be- 

Freed Psyche  soars  from  doubt  and  dusk 

low! 

Beyond  earth's  crumbling  chrysalis? 

TWO    GRAVES.  — THE   WORLD. 


28" 


Ay !  "  dust  to  dust !  *'  —  the  soil  she  trod 
Claims  soon  her  outworn  fleshly  dress ; 

But  her  true  life  puts  forth,  with  God, 
Fresh  blooms  of  everlastingness ! 


TWO  GRAVES. 
I. 
It    glooms    forlornly  'mid   wan    ocean 
dunes, 
A  desolate   grave-mound  on  a  dreary 
lea, 
Touched  by  sad  splendors  of  gray-misted 
moons, 
Or    veiled   by   shivering    spray-drifts 
from  the  sea. 

There,  all  unmarked,  the  dim  days  come 
and  go ; 
Xo  tender  hand  renews  its  crumbling 
turf, 
On    which    the    o'er  wearied    sea-winds 
faintly  blow, 
Blent   with    far    murmurings   of  the 
mournful  surf. 

Vaguely  the  uncompanioned  hours  flit 

by, 
Wrapped  in  pale  clouds  that  some- 
times mutely  weep 
Some  ghost  of  Lethe  haunts  that  hollow 

sky, 

Where  even   the   doubtful  noontides 
seem  asleep, 

Save  when  autumnal  tempests  fiercely 
rise, 
Baring  the  harbor-mouth's  black  teeth 
of  rocks, 
And  like  a  Maenad,  with  wild  hair  and 
eyes, 
Eaves  from  the  North  the   infuriate 
Equinox. 


Here,    peace    divine,   o'er    glimmering 
grove  and  grass, 
Hallows  the  sunshine  in  the  noon's 
warm  lull ; 


Ethereal     shadows     gently     pause,     or 
pass, 
Flecking  with  gold  the  hill-slope  beau- 
tiful. 

This   grave,   all  wreathed  with  flowers 
and  glad  with  spring 
Looks    skyward    like    a    half-veiled, 
museful  eye, 
Which  answers  subtly  while  the  wood- 
birds  sing 
Heaven's  smile  of  forecast  immortal- 
ity. 

Can    deathly    dust    pervade  a  spot    so 
sweet  ? 
Or  hath  the  form  it  guarded  stolen 
away, 
And  ere  its   hour  of   ransom,  gone  to 
meet 
The  unborn  soul  of  Eesurrection  Day  ? 


THE    WORLD. 
QUATRAINS. 

The  world  is  older  than  our  earliest 
dates ; 

All  thoughts,  all  feelings,  all  desires,  all 
fates, 

Were  known  and  tested,  long  ere 
Adam's  crime 

Set  the  keen  sword  of  flame  at  Eden- 
gates  ! 

Billions  of  years  on  billions  more  have 
fled, 

Since  first  love's  kiss  a  maiden  cheek 
turned  red ; 

Since  the  first  mother  nursed  her  inno- 
cent babe  — 

The  first  wild  mourner  wept  above  his 
dead. 

These  ancient  clods  our  vagrant  feet  dis- 
place, 

May  once  have  held  the  loftiest  soul  of 
srrace ; 


288 


LATER   FOE  MS. 


This  dateless  dust  that  dims  our  garden 

flowers, 
May   once    have    smiled  —  a   beauteous 

woman's  face! 

Older  than  all  man's  wisdom  and   his 

dreams, 
Older  than  all  which   is,  than  all  which 

seems, 
Our  world  rolls  on,  where  wrapped  in 

cloud-like  fire, 
Phantasmal,  pale,  her  awful  death-morn 

srleams ! 


THE  MAY  SKY. 

O  sky  !     O  lucid  sky  of  May ! 
O'er    which    the  fleecy  clouds    have 
stolen, 
In  bands  snow-white,   and  glimmering- 
gray, 
Or  heart-steeped  in  a  lustre  golden. 

O  sky!  that  tak'st  a  thousand  moods, 
Enshadowed  now,  and  now  out-beam- 

Swept  by  low  winds  like  interludes 
Of  music  'twixt  soft  spells  of  dreaming, 

Type  of  the  poet's  soul  thou  art 

In  spring-time  of  his  teeming  fancies, 

When  heavenly  glamours  brim  his  heart, 
And  heavenly  glory  lights  his  glances; 

As  morning's  dubious  vapors  form 
In  wavering  lines  and  circlets  tender, 

Pure  as  an  infant's  brow,  or  warm 
With tintings  of  a  primrose  splendor; 

Thus  o'er  the  poet's  soul  his  thought 
Pale  first  as  mist- wreaths  scarce  cre- 
ated, 

With  fire-keen  breaths  of  ardor  fraught, 
From  radiance  born,  to  beauty  mated, 

Takes    shape    like    yonder    cloud    out- 
spanned 
Above     the     murmurous     woodland 
spaces, 


Wbose  brightening  rifts,  methinks,  are 
grand 
With  mystic   lights    and    marvellous 

faces ; 

Or,  merges  in  some  fancy  vain. 

Yet     rare     beyond     the     worldling's 
measure ; 

Some  delicate  cloudlet  of  the  brain 
That  melts  far  up  its  quivering  azure! 


A  LYRICAL   PICTURE. 
COMPOSED    KEAE    THE    SEA-COAST. 

See!  see! 
How  the  shadows  steal  along, 
Blending  in  a  golden  throng, 

Softly,  lovingly; 
From  each  mossed  and  quaint  tree-col- 
umn, 
Stretched  toward  the  dimpling  river, 

How  they  quiver ! 
While  in  low,  pathetic  tone 
Twilight's  herald-breeze  is  blown 

Down  the  sunset  solemn ! 

Hear !    hear ! 
Dropped  from  gray  mists,  circling  high, 
The  sea-wending  curlew's  cry, 

Strangely  wild  and  drear; 
Echoed  by  a  voice  that  thrills  us. 
From  the  murmurous  verge  of  ocean  — 

Voice  that  fills  us 
With  a  sense  of  mystery  old, 
And  vague  memories  which  enfold 

Many  a  weird  emotion. 

Turn!  turn! 
From  yon  loftier  cloud-land  dun; 
Mark  what  splendors  of  the  sun 

Westward  throb  and  burn  — 
Burn  as  if  some  glorious  angel 
Blessed  the  air  and  land  and  river 

With  his  mute  evangel  : 
All  things  own  so  rich  a  grace 
That  in  Heaven's  divine  embrace 

Earth  seems  clasped  forever! 


LAMIA    UX VEILED.  —  RACHEL. 


289 


LAMIA   UXVEILED. 

Her  step  is  soft  as  a  fay's  footfall. 
And  her  eyes  are  wonderful  founts  of 
blue ; 
But  I've  seen  that  small  foot  spurning 
hearts, 
And  the  soul  that  burns  so  strangely 
through 

Those  orbs  of  blue, 
O!  is't  a  human  soul  at  all  ? 

I  never  have  gazed  on  their  cloudless 
light, 
But  there  came  a  chill  to  my  blood  and 
brain. 
And  their  ominous  beauty  hath  struck 
me  dumb 
With  a  secret  and  nameless  pain: 
Ay,  blood  and  brain 
Grew   cold  as  with  spells   of  a  witch's 
blight. 

Is't   true  ?     Can    it   be   that    a    mortal 
frame 
Of  the  tenderest  mould,  of  the  fairest 
grace, 
May  hold  but  a  serpent's  soul  in  sooth  ? 
That  the  white  and  red  of  the  daintiest 
face 

May  mask  the  trace 
Of    subtle     guile,   that   shall    wake   to 
flame 

And  smite  with  the  sting  of  a  poisoned 
jest. 
Or    the    sudden    flashing    of    deadly 
scorn, 
If  it  be,   I  know  that  your   Charmian 
there. 
In  her  fragile  grace,  is  a  Lamia,  born 
To  blight  the  morn 
Of  the  passion  that  clings  to  her  faithless 
breast ! 

Why,  look !    As  we  speak,  she  has  turned 
her  wiles 
On  the  gilded   wooer    her   eyes    had 
sought, 


While  you  were  steeped  in  the  roseate 
gulf 
Of  a  sweet,  voluptuous  thought: 
Some  loves  are  bought, 
And  you'll  yearn  in  vain  for  her  'wilder- 
ing  smiles. 

From  this  night  forth,  imtil  placid  and 

meek, 
( Oh !  meek  as  a  saint,  as  an  angel  bland ! ) 
With  a  faint  rose  flushing  her  brow  and 

cheek, 
She  whispers,  "  Adieu!  I  must  give  my 

hand, 

At  the  heart's  command. 
Win  a  worthier  love;  you  have  only  to 

seek!  " 


RACHEL. 

INSCRIBED  TO  MRS.  M.  D.,    OF  GEORGIA. 

"A  more  desolate  Rachel  than  she  of  old, 
because,  although  her  children  '  are  not,'  yet 
the  fountain  of  her  tears  is  sealed."' 

The  wan  September  moonbeams,  strug- 
gling down 
Through  the  gray  clouds  upon  her  des- 
olate head, 
The  coldness  of  their  muffled  radiance 
shed 
Faintly  above  her  like  a  spectral  crown : 

So,  glimmering  ghostlike  in  the  dreary 
light, 
Recounting  her  strange  sorrows  o'er 

and  o'er, 
Her  words  rang  hollow  as  far  waves 
ashore 
Rolled  through  the  sombre  void  of  wind- 
less night. 

Nor  in  her  mortal  weakness  could  she  win 
Even  brief  redemption  from  the  soul's 

eclipse. 
She  looked  like  suffering  Patience,  on 
whose  lips 
Cold  fingers  press  to  keep  the  wild  grief 


290 


LATER   POEMS. 


Suddenly  on  the  pathos  and  the  woe 
Of   that  sad  vision  broke  the  gleeful 

noise 
From  the   near  playground  of   blithe 
girls  and  boys, 
Through  shine  and   shadow  hurrying  to 
and  fro. 

A  wearier  shade  the  pallid   face  o'er- 
crossed : 
She  shivered,  drooping;  but   through 

flowery  bars 
Of  the  rude  trellis  sought  the   distant 
stars, 
Saying,   low:  "  Where  dwell  in  heaven 
my  loved  and  lost  ' 

Dear  Christ,  I  thought,  if  soft  and  ruth- 
ful.  thou 
Still  reign' st beyond  us, —  ah!  assuage 

the  pain 
Of  this  worn  soul,   more   laden   than 
hers  of  Nain ; 
Ope  thy  deep  heavens  for  one  swift  mo- 
ment now; 

And,  while  her  very  heart-throbs  seem 
to  cease 
For  rapture,  let  those  hungering  eyes 

behold 
Her  lost  beloved  transfigured   in   thy 
fold. 
Crowned   with   the   palm,   walking   the 
fields  of  peace ! 


THE  SNO  W-MESSENGERS. 

Dedicated  to  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  and 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  with  pen  por- 
traits of  both. 

The  pine-trees  lift  their  dark  bewildered 

eyes  — 
Or  so  I  deem  —  up  to  the  clouded  skies: 
No  breeze,  no  faintest  breeze,  is  heard 

to  blow: 
In    wizard    silence    falls    the    windless 

snow. 


It   falls    in    breezeless    quiet,  strangely 

still; 
'Scapes  the  dulled  pane,  but  loads  the 

sheltering  sill. 
With  curious   hand  the  fleecy  flakes  I 

mould. 
And  draw  them  inward,  rounded,  from 

the  cold. 

The  glittering  ball  that  chills  my  finger- 
tips 

I  hold  a  moment's  space  to  loving  lips; 

For  from  the  northward  these  pure 
snow-flakes  came. 

And  to  my  touch  their  coldness  thrills 
like  flame. 

Outbreathed   from   luminous   memories 

nursed  apart. 
Deep  in  the  veiled  adytum  of  the  heart, 
The  type  of  Norland  dearth  such  snows 

may  be : 
They  bring  the  soul  of  summer's  warmth 

to  me. 

Beholding  them,  in  magical  light  ex- 
pands 

The  changeful  charm  that  crowns  the 
northern  lands, 

And  a  fair  past  I  deemed  a  glory  fled 

Comes  back,  with  happy  sunshine 
round  its  head. 

For  Ariel  fancy  takes  her  airiest  flights 
To   pass    once   more   o'er   Hampshire's 

mountain  heights, 
To     view     the     flower-bright    pastures 

bloom  in  grace 
By  many  a  lowering  hill-side's  swarthy 

base; 

The  fruitful  farms,  the  enchanted  vales, 
to  view, 

And  the  coy  mountain  lakes'  transcen- 
dent blue. 

Or  flash  of  sea-waves  up  the  thunderous 
dune. 

With  wan  sails  whitening  in  the  mid- 
night moon ; 


THE   SNO  W-MES  SENG  Eli  S. 


291 


The  cataract  front  of   storm,   malignly 

rife 
With   deathless   instincts    of    demoniac 

strife. 
Or,  in  shy  contrast,  down  a  shaded  dell, 
The    rivulet    tinkling    like    an    Alpine 

bell; 


And  many  a  cool,  calm  stretch  of  cul- 
tured lawn. 

Touched  by  the  freshness  of  the  crystal 
dawn. 

Sloped  to  the  sea,  whose  laughing  waters 
meet 

About  the  unrobed  virgin's  rosy  feet. 


*' To  pass  once  more  o'er  Hampshire's  mountain  heights. 
The  fruitful  farms,  the  enchanted  vales,  to  view, 
And  the  coy  mountain  lakes'  transcendent  blue." 


But,  tireless  fancy,  stay  the  wing  that 

roams, 
And  fold  it   last  near  northern  hearts 

and  homes. 

These  tropic  veins  still  own  their  kin- 
dred heat, 

And  thoughts  of  thee,  my  cherished 
South,  are  sweet  — 

Mournfully  sweet — and  wed  to  memories 
vast, 

High-hovering  still  o'er  thy  majestic 
past. 

But  a  new  epoch  greets  us ;  with  it  blends 
The  voice  of  ancient  foes  now  changed 

to  friends. 
Ah!  who  would  friendship's  outstretched 

hand  despise. 
Or  mock  the  kindling  light  in  generous 

eyes '? 


So,   'neath   the   Quaker-poet's   tranquil 

roof, 
From  all  dull  discords  of  the  world  aloof, 
I  sit  once  more,  and  measured  converse 

hold 
With   him   whose   nobler  thoughts  are 

rhythmic  gold; 

See  his  deep  brows  half  puckered  in  a 

knot 
O'er  some  hard  problem  of  our  mortal 

lot. 
Or  a  dream  soft  as  May  >vinds  of  the 

south 
Waft  a  girl's  sweetness  round  his  firni-set 

mouth. 

Or  should  he  deem   wrong  threats   the 

public  weal. 
Lo!    the   whole   man   seems    girt  with 

flashing  steel; 


292 


LATER  POEMS. 


His  glance  a  sword  thrust,  and  his  words 
of  ire 

Like  thunder-tones  from  some  old  proph- 
et's lyre. 

Or  by  the  hearth-stone  when  the  day  is 
done, 

Mark,  swiftly  launched,  a  sudden  shaft 
of  fun ; 

The  short  quick  laugh,  the  smartly  smit- 
ten knees, 

And  all  sure  tokens  of  a  mind  at  ease. 

Discerning  which,  by  some  mysterious 
law, 

Near  to  his  seat  two  household  favor- 
ites draw, 

Till  on  her  master's  shoulders,  sly  and 
sleek, 

Grimalkin,  mounting,  rubs  his  furrowed 
cheek ; 

While  terrier  Dick,  denied  all  words  to 

rail, 
Snarls  as  he  shakes  a  short  protesting  tail, 
But  with  shrewd  eyes  says,  plain  as  plain 

can  be, 
"Drop  that  sly  cat.     I'm  worthier  far 

than  she." 

And  he  who  loves  all  lowliest  lives  to 

please, 
Conciliates  soon  his  dumb  Diogenes, 
Who  in  return  his  garment  nips  with 

care, 
And  drags  the  poet  out,  to  take  the  air. 

God's  innocent  pensioners  in  the  wood- 
lands dim, 

The  fields  and  pastures,  know  and  trust 
in  him ; 

And  in  their  love  his  lonely  heart  is 
blessed, 

Our  pure,  hale-minded  Cowper  of  the 
West! 

The  scene  is  changed;  and  now  I  stand 

again 
By  one,  the  cordial  prince  of  kindly  men, 


Courtly  yet  natural,  comrade  meet  for 

kings, 
But    fond    of    homeliest  thoughts  and 

homeliest  things. 

A  poet  too,  in  whose  warm  brain  and 

breast 
What  birds  of  song  have  filled  a  golden 

nest, 
Till  in  song's  summer  prime  their  wings 

unfurled, 
Have  made  Arcadian  half  the  listening 

world, 

Around  whose  eve  some  radiant  grace  of 
morn 

Smiles  like  the  dew-light  on  a  mountain 
thorn. 

Blithely  he  bears  Time's  envious  load  to- 
day : 

Ah!  the  green  heart  o'ertops  the  head  of 
gray. 

Alert  as  youth,  with  vivid,  various 
talk 

He  wiles  the  way  through  grove  and  gar- 
den walk, 

Fair  flowers  untrained,  trees  fraught 
with  wedded  doves, 

Past  the  cool  copse  and  willowy  glade  he 
loves. 

Here  gleams  innocuous  of  a  mirthful 
mood 

Pulse  like  mild  fire-flies  down  a  dusky 
wood, 

Or  keener  speech  (his  leonine  head  un- 
bowed) 

Speeds  lightning-clear  from  thought's 
o'ershadowing  cloud. 

O  deep  blue  eyes!  O  voice  as  woman's 
low ! 

O  firm  white  hand,  with  kindliest 
warmth  aglow ! 

O  manly  form,  and  frank,  sweet,  courte- 
ous mien, 

Pieflex  of  museful  days  and  nights  se- 
rene ! 


TO    A.   H.     STEPHENS.  — THE   ENCHANTED   MIRROR.       295 


Still  are  ye  near  me,  vivid,  actual  still, 
Here  in  my  lonely  fastness  on  the  hill ; 
Nor  can  ye  wane  till  cold  my  life-blood 

flows, 
And  fancy  fades  in  feeling's  last  repose. 

What!    snowing  yet?     The   landscape 

waxes  pale; 
Round  the  mute  heaven  there  hangs  a 

quivering  veil, 
Through   whose  frail   woof   like   silent 

shuttles  go 
The  glancing  glamours  of  the  glittering 

snow. 

Yes,  falling  still,  while  fond  remem- 
brance stirs 

In  these  wan-faced,  unwonted  messen- 
gers. 

Dumb  storm !  outpour  your  arctic  heart's 
desire ! 

Your  flakes  to  me  seem  hushed  with 
fairy  fire ! 


TO  ALEXAXDER  H.   STEPHEXS. 

Last  of  a  stalwart  time  and  race  °;one 

by, 
That  simple,    stately,    God-appointed 

band, 
Who  wrought  alone  to  glorify  their 

land, 
With  lives  built  high  on  truth's  eternity, 
While  placemen  plot,  while  flatterers 

fawn  or  lie, 
And  foul  corruptions,  wave  on  wave, 

expand, 
I  see  thee  rise,  stainless  of  heart  as 

hand, 
O  man  of  Roman  thought  and  radiant 

eye! 

Through    thy   frail    form,    there    burn 

divinely  strong 
The  antique  virtues  of  a  worthier  day ; 
Thy  soul  is  golden,  if  thy  head  be  gray, 
Xo  years   can   work   that   lofty   nature 

wrong; 


They  set  to  concords  of  ethereal  song 
A  life  grown  holier  on  its  heavenward 
way. 


THE  EXCHAXTED  MIRROR. 
FBOM  THE   PERSIAN. 

What  time  o'er  Persia  ruled  that  up- 
right Khan 

Khosru  the  Good,  in  Shiraz  lived  a 
man, 

A  beggar-carle,  to  whose  rough  hands 
were  given  — 

I  know  not  how  —  a  mirror  clear  as 
heaven 

On  beauteous,  vernal  mornings,  and 
more  bright 

Than  streamlets  sparkling  in  midsum- 
mer's light; 

And,  strange  to  say,  whoso  should  look 
therein, 

Though  uglier  than  a  nightmare  dream 
of  sin, 

Grew  comely  as  the  loveliest  shapes  we 
know ; 

The  while  —  oh,  wonder !  a  fair  form  and 
face 

Caught  straightway  somewhat  of  celes- 
tial grace. 

Where'er  in  twilight  dusk,  or  noontide 

glow 
With  swift,  firm  pace  or  footstep  sad 

and  slow, 
Where'er  he  walked  through  the  broad 

land  of  palms, 
Or  yet  his  lips  unclosed  to  plead   for 

alms, 
The  beggar  held   his    mystic    treasure 

high 
To  glass  the  forms  of  those  who  passed 

him  by; 
And  all  who  came  within  that  marvel's 

range, 
Paused  spell-bound  by  the  strangely-daz- 
zling change; 


294 


LATER  POEMS. 


Lords,  ladies,  gazed!  the  prospect 
pleased  them  well ; 

"Ah,  heavens!"  they  sighed,  "how 
irresistible! " 

E'en  the  coarse  hag,  foul,  wrinkled,  and 
unclean, 

Beamed  like  a  blushing  virgin  of  six- 
teen. 

Hearts  are  transformed  with  faces ;  out- 
ward beauty 

Seems  to  make  quick  the  inward  sense 
of  duty; 

For  none,  of  all  the  charmed  throng  that 
pass 

Revivified  within  the  fairy  glass, 

But  pours  upon  the  beggar  peuce  with 
praise, 

Invoking  on  his  head  long,  golden  days. 

And  every  joy  thf,t  lights  our  mortal 
ways. 

In  vain!  —  the  beggar  sickened.     While 

he  lay 
In  death's  cold  shadow,   prostrate  and 

forlorn. 
He  bade  his  wife  call  to  him,  on  a  morn, 
His  only  son:  "Guard  well  when  I  am 

dead," 
Feebly,   with  fluttering  breath,  the  old 

man  said; 
"  This     mystic    glass,    whereby     great 

things  are  won  — 
Be  shrewd,  be  watchful;  do  as  I  have 

done. 
And  thou  shalt  prosper  likewise,  O  my 

son ! ' ' 

He  took  the  precious  gift — that  brain- 
less wight  — 

But,  scorning  to  employ  its  powers 
aright. 

Returned  all  pale  and  penniless  at  night. 

"Fool!"  cried  the  angry  father,  "well 

I  guess 
Why  thus   thou   seek'st   me,   pale   and 

penniless : 
O  stupid  dolt!  vain  peacock!  arrant  ass! 


Thou  hast  watched  all  day  thine  own 

face  in  the  glass  ; 
Go  to!  this  foolish  fruit  of  idle  pride 
No  human  heart  hath  ever  satisfied, 
Far  less   an   empty    pocket   lined   with 

gold ; 
Thy  coxcomb   pate   to  base  self-love  is 

sold! 
Yet  hearken  once  again:  he's  only  wise 
Who  dupes  the  world  through  flattery's 

mirrored  lies  ; 
But  past  all  terms  of  scorn  the  insensate 

elf 
Who  holds  its  glass  therein  to  view  — 

himself!" 


THE  IMPRISONED   SEA-WINDS. 

Voices  of  strange  sea  breezes  caught, 
Half  tangled  in  the  pine-tree  tall. 

With  ocean's  tenderest  music  fraught, 
Serenely  rise,  and  sweetly  fall. 

They  charm  the  lids  of  wearied  eyes, 
And  all  the  dreamy  senses  bless 

With  breath  of  wave-born  symphonies, 
And  balms  of  mild  forgetf illness, 

'Till  o'er  the  fragrant  calms  of  peace, 
My    soul,     scarce     moved,    benignly 
glides, 

Or  in  all  sorrows'  soft  surcease, 

Rocks  tranced  on  the  phantom  tides : 

But  still  those  faint  sea  voices  speak, 
Those  prisoned  sea  winds  rise  and  fall, 

The  ghost  of  sea  foam  sweeps  my  cheek, 
And  the  sea's  mystery  sighs  through 
all. 


BLANCHE  AND  NELL. 
A    BALLAD. 

On,  Blanche  is  a  city  lady, 
Bedecked  in  her  silks  and  lace : 

She  walks  with  the  mien  of  a  stately 
queen, 
And  a  queen's  imperious  grace. 


TEE  DARK. 


295 


But  Nell  is  a  country  maiden, 
Her  dress  from  the  farmstead  loom: 

Her  step  is  free  as  a  breeze  at  sea, 
And  her  face  is  a  rose  in  bloom. 

The  house  of  Blanche  is  a  marvel 
Of  marble  from  base  to  dome ; 

It  hath  all  things  fair,  and  costly  and 
rare, 
But  alas !  it  is  not  —  home ! 

Nell  lives  in  a  lonely  cottage 

On  t'he  shores  of  a  wave-washed  isle ; 
And  the  life  she  leads  with  its   loving 
deeds 

The  angels  behold  and  smile. 

Blanche  finds  her  palace  a  prison. 
And  oft,  tbrough  the  dreary  years, 

In  her  burdened  breast  there  is  sad  un- 
rest, 
And  her  eyes  are  dimmed  with  tears. 

But  to  Nell  her  toils  are  pastime, 

(Though  never  till  night  they  cease) ; 

And    her  soul's   afloat  like  a   buoyant 
boat 
On  the  crystal  tides  of  peace. 

Ah !  Blanche  hath  many  a  lover, 
But  she  broodeth  o'er  old  regret; 

The  shy,  sweet  red  from  her  cheek  is 
fled 
For  the  star  of  her  heart  has  set. 

Fair  Nell !  but  a  single  lover 
Hath  she  in  the  wide,  wide  world ; 

Yet  warmly  apart  in  her  glowing  heart 
Love  bides,  with  his  pinions  furled. 

To  Blanche  all  life  seems  shadowed, 
And  she  but  a  ghost  therein ; 

Thro'   the   misty  gray   of    her  autumn 
day 
Steal  voices  of  grief  and  sin. 

To  Nell  all  life  is  sunshine, 

All  earth  like  a  fairy  sod, 
Where  the  roses  grow,  and  the  violets 
blow, 

In  the  softest  breath  of  God. 


What  meaneth  this  mighty  contrast 
Of  lives  that  we  meet  and  mark  '? 

One  bright  as  the  flowers  from  May-tide 
showers, 
One  rayless,  sombre,  and  dark  ? 

O,  folly  of  mortal  wisdom, 
That  neither  will  break  nov  bow, 

That  riddle  hath  vexed  the  thought  per- 
plexed 
Of  millions  of  souls  ere  now! 

O,  folly  of  mortal  wisdom ! 

From    your    guesses  what  good    can 
come  ? 
We  can  learn  no  more  than  the  wise  of 
yore; 
'Tis  better  to  trust,  and  —  be  dumb! 


THE    DARK. 
A   FAXTASY. 

The  passionless  twilight  slowly  fades 
Beyond  the  gray,  grim  woodland  glades, 
Till  now,  with  mournful  eyes,  I  mark 
The  approaching  dark: 

A  clouded  spirit,  borne  from  far, 
Whose  sombre  front  no  delicate  star 
Brightens,  —  to  tint  with  silvery  light 
Her  realms  of  night : 

An  awful  spirit!  her  pale  lips 
Low  whispering  down  the  drear  eclipse, 
Send  thro'  those  rayless  spaces  chill 
An  ominous  thrill : 

Her    tongue's    strange    language    none 

may  know ; 
We  only  feel  it  ebb  and  flow 
In  murmurs  of  half-muffled  sighs, 
And  vague  replies : 

All  hail !  akin  to  me  thou  art, 
Dim  angel  of  the  veiled  heart  — 
Ah!  wrap  me  close,  ah!  fold  me  deep! 
I  fain  would  sleep ! 


296 


LATER   POEMS. 


IN   THE  STUDIO. 

You  walk  my  studio's  modest  round, 
With  slowly  supercilious  air; 

While  in  each  lifted  eyebrow  lurks, 
The  keenness  of  an  ambushed  sneer. 

You  lift  your  glass,  and  scan  the  walls, 
Between  the  pictures  —  with  a  glance 

Which  takes  the  curtained  drapery  in, 
But  views  the  art-work  all  askance : 

A  sigh !  a  shrug !  and  then  you  turn 
Homeward  —  your  judgment   fixed  as 
fate  — 

The  labors  of  a  life-time  gauged, 
Serenely  in  your  shallow  pate ! 


WASHINGTON! 

Feb.  22,  1732. 

Bright  natal  morn!  what  face  appears 
Beyond  the  rolling  mist  of  years  ?  — 
A  face  whose  loftiest  traits  combine 
All  virtues  of  a  stainless  line 

Passed  from  leal  sire  to  loyal  son; 
The  face  of  him  whose  steadfast  zeal 
Drew  harmonies  of  law  and  right 
From  chaos  and  anarchic  night: 
Who  with  a  power  serene  as  Fate's 
Wrought  from  rude  hordes  of  turbu-    j 
lent  States 
The  grandeur  of  our  commonweal:  — 
All  hail !  all  hail !  to  Washington ! 

Freedom  he  wooed  in  such  brave  guise, 
Men  gazing  in  her  luminous  eyes 
Beheld  all  heaven  reflected  shine 
Far  down  those  sapphire  orbs  divine: 

And,  worshipped  her  so  chastely  won; 
If  still  she  panted,  fresh  from  strife. 

And    blood-stains    flecked   her     gar- 
ment's rim, 

They   could   not   make   its  whiteness 
dim ; 

For,  shed  by  hearts  sublimely  true. 

Such  drops  are  changed  to  sacred  dew. 
The  chrism  of  patriot  light  and  life  — 

Baptizing  first  our  Washington. 


For  cloudless  years,  benignant  still. 
This  Freedom   worked    her    bounteous 

will;  — 
Mingling  with  homespun  man  and  maid, 
Her  pale  cheek  caught  a  browner  shade 

In  fields  where  harvest  toils  were  done; 
To    theirs    she    tuned     her     rhythmic 

tongue 
Veiling  in  part  her  goddess-mien  : 
The  woman  smiled  above  the  queen; 
While  stationed  always  by  her  side, 
Men  saw  —  as  bridegroom  near  his  bride, 
(O  bride,  forever  fair  and  young!)  — 

Her  chosen  hero  —  Washington! 

She  wove  for  him  a  civic  crown ; 
She  made  so  pure  his  hale  renown. 

All  glories  of  the  antique  days, 
Waned  in  the  clear,  immaculate  blaze 

Poured   from    his    nature's    noontide 
sun ; 
No  slave  of  folly's  catchword  school, 

His  instincts  proud  of  blood  and  race 

She     tempered    witli    sweet,   human 
grace, 
Till  his  broad  being's  rounded  flow 

Sea-like,  embraced  the  high  and  low. 
Swayed  by  the  golden-sceptred  rule, 

The  equal  will  of  Washington. 

His  influence  spread  so  wide  and  deep. 
Earth's  fettered  millions  stirred  in  sleep; 
And  murmurs  born  of  wakening  flame 
On  the  wild  winds  of  twilight  came 

From  lands  by  despot-swarms  o'errun; 
They  too  would  win  the  priceless  boon 

Of     Freedom's     dower;  — they     too 
would  see, 

And  clasp  the  robes  of  Liberty; 

But,  throned  within  the  virgin  west, 
She  heard  them  not;  —  she  loved  to  rest 
In  dew-lit  dawn  and  tranquil  noon, 

Next  the  strong  heart  of  Washington ! 

Through  shower  and  sun    the    seasons 

rolled, 
November's  gray  and  April's  gold; 
They  only  raised  (more  calmly  grand) 
His  genius  of  supreme  command, 


H  -si  H       -^ 


S  §  S 


-i    O 
S   pi   o 


IN  AMBUSH.  — SOUTH   CAROLINA,    ETC. 


29', 


Whose  course,  in  blood  and  wrath  be- 
gun, 
Grew  gentler,  as  the  mellowing  lights 
Of  peace  made  beauteous  sky  and  sod ; 
His  evening  came ;  —  he  walked  with 
God; 
And  down  life's  gradual  sunset-slope, 
He  hearkened  to  a  heavenly  hope ;  — 
"  Look  up!  behold  the  fadeless  heights 
Which    rise  to   greet   thee,  —  Washing- 
ton!" 

He  dies !  the  nations  hold  their  breath ! 

He  dies !  but  is  he  thrall  to  Death  ?  — 

Thousands  who  quaff  earth's  sunshine 
free, 

Are  less  alive  on  earth  than  he ; 

Lacking     that    power   which    thrills 
through  none 

But  God's  elect,  that  winged  spell 
Which  like  miraculous  lightning  darts 
Electric  to  all  noble  hearts ; — 
Flashed     from     his    soul's    sublimer 

sphere, 
'Tis  still  a  matchless  influence  here! 

Majestic  spirit!  all  is  well, 
Where'er  thou  rulest,  —  Washington ! 


IN  AMBUSH. 

The  crescent  moon,  with  pallid  glow, 
Swept  backward  like  a  bended  bow: 
Across,  a  shaft  of  phantom  light 
Thrilled,    like    an    arrow    winged    for 
flight. 

Just    when    that    flickering    shaft  was 

aimed 
Venus  in  mellow  radiance  flamed, 
Unmindful  of  the  treacherous  dart 
Which  seemed  upreared  to  pierce  her 

heart ; 

For,   fain   to    smite    her    through    and 

through, 
Dian  lay  ambushed  in  the  blue : 
Half  veiled  from  sight,  still,  still  below, 
She  aimed  her  shaft,  she  clasped  her 

bow. 


For  ever  thus,  since  time  was  born, 
Cold  virtue  points  her  shaft  of  scorn 
At    passionate    love,    in    whose   warm 

beam 
Her  own  but  seems  a  crescent  dream. 


SOUTH    CAROLINA     TO    THE    STATES 
OF  THE  NORTH* 

ESPECIALLY  TO  THOSE  THAT  FORMED  A 
PAKT  OF  THE  OEIGIXAL  THIRTEEN. 

Dedicated  to  His  Excellency ,  Wade  Hampton. 

1   lift    these  hands  with  iron  fetters 
banded : 
Beneath  the  scornful  sunlight  and  cold 
stars 
I     rear     my    once     imperial     forehead 
branded 
By  alien  shame's  immedicable  scars; 
Like  some  pale  captive,  shunned  by  all 
the  nations, 
I     crouch     unpitied,    quivering     and 
apart  — 
Laden  with  countless  woes  and  desola- 
tions, 
The  life-blood  freezing  round  a  broken 
heart ! 

About  my  feet,  splashed  red  with  blood 
of  slaughters, 
My  children  gathering  in  wild,  mourn- 
ful throngs ; 

Despairing  sons,  frail  infants,  stricken 
daughters, 
Rehearse  the  awful  burden   of  their 
wrongs ; 

Vain  is  their  cry,  and  worse  than  vain 
their  pleading: 


*  This  Poem  was  composed  at  a  period  when 
it  seemed  as  if  all  the  horrors  of  misgovern- 
ment,  so  graphically  depicted  by  Pike  in  his 
"  Prostrate  State,"  would  be  perpetuated  in 
South  Carolina. 

It  was  a  significant  and  terrible  epoch;  a 
time  American  statesmen  would  do  well  to 
remember  occasionally  as  a  warning  against 
patchwork  political  re-constructions. 


298 


LATER   POEMS. 


I    turn    from    stormy    breasts,    from 
yearning  eyes, 
To  mark  where  Freedom's  outraged  form 
receding, 

Wanes  in  chill  shadow  down  the  mid- 
night skies! 

I  wooed  her  once  in  wild  tempestuous 
places, 
The  purple  vintage  of   my  soul  out- 
poured, 
To  win  and  keep  her  unrestrained  em- 
braces, 
What  time  the  olive-crown  o'ertopped 
the  sword; 
O !  northmen,  with  your  gallant  heroes 
blending, 
Mine,  in  old  years,  for  this  sweet  god- 
dess died ; 
But  now  —  ah !  shame,  all  other  shame 
transcending! 
Your  pitiless   hands  have    torn    her 
from  my  side. 

What !  'tis  a  tyrant-party'' s  treacherous 
action  — 
Your  hand  is  clean,  your  conscience 
clear,  ye  sigh ; 
Ay !    but  ere  now  your  sires  had  throt- 
tled faction. 
Or,  pealed  o'er  half  the  world  their 
battle-cry ; 
Its  voice  outrung  from  solemn  mountain- 
passes 
Swept  by  wild  storm-winds  of  the  At- 
lantic strand. 
To    where    the    swart    Sierras'    sidlen 
grasses, 
Droop  in  low  languors  of  the  sunset- 
land! 

Xever,  since  earthly  States  began  their 
story, 
Hath  any  suffered,  bided,  borne  like 
me : 
At  last,  recalling  all  mine  ancient  glory, 
I  vowed  my  fettered  commonwealth  to 
free : 


Even  at  the  thought,  beside  the  pros- 
trate column 
Of  chartered  rights,  which  blasted  lay 
and  dim  — 
Uprose  my  noblest  son  with  purpose  sol- 
emn, 
While,  host  on  host,  his  brethren  fol- 
lowed him : 

Wrong,  grasped  by  truth,  arraigned  by 
law,  (whose  sober 
Majestic  mandates  rule   o'er    change 
and  time)  — 
Smit  by  the  ballot,  like  some  flushed  Oc- 
tober, 
Eeeled  in  the  autumn  rankness  of  his 
crime ; 
Struck,     tortured,   pierced  —  but    not  a 
blow  returning. 
The  steadfast  phalanx  of  my  honored 
braves 
Planted  their  bloodless  flag  where  sun- 
rise burning, 
Flashed  a  new  splendor  o'  er  our  mar- 
tyrs' graves! 

What  then  ?     O,  sister  States !  what  wel- 
come omen 
Of     love     and     concord   crossed   our 
brightening  blue, 
The  foes  we  vanquished,  are  they  not 
your  foemen, 
Our    laws    upheld,  your  sacred   safe- 
guards, too? 
Yet    scarce    had    victory   crowned    our 
grand  endeavor, 
And  peace   crept  out   from  shadowy 
glooms  remote  — 
Than  —  as  if  bared  to  blast  all  hope  for- 
ever, 
Your  tyrant's  sword  shone  glittering 
at  my  throat! 

Once  more  my  bursting  chains  were  re- 

united, 
Once  more  barbarian  plaudits  wildly 

rung 
O'er   the    last   promise    of    deliverance 

blighted, 


THE    STRICKEN   SOUTH    TO    THE    NORTH. 


299 


The  prostrate  purpose,  and  the  palsied 
tongue: 
Ah!   faithless  sisters,  "neath   my   swift 
undoing, 

Peers  the  black  presage  of  your  wrath 
to  come ; 
Above  your  heads  are  signal  clouds  of 
ruin, 

Whose  lightnings  flash,  whose  thun- 
ders are  not  dumb ! 

There  towers   a   judgment-seat   beyond 
our  seeing; 
There  lives  a  Judge,   whom  none  can 
bribe  or  blind; 
Before  whose  dread  decree,  your  spirit 
fleeing, 
May  reap  the  whirlwind,  having  sown 
the  wind: 
I,  in  that  day  of  justice,  fierce  and  torrid, 
When  blood  —  your  blood  —  outpours 
like  poisoned  wine, 
Pointing  to   these   chained   limbs,   this 
blasted  forehead, 
May  mock  your  ruin,  as  ye  mocked  at 
mine ! 


THE      S  THICK EX      SOUTH      TO       THE 
NORTH. 

[Dedicated  to  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.] 

"We  are  thinking  a  great  deal  about  the 
poor  fever-stricken  cities  of  the  South,  and  all 
contributing  according  to  our  means  for  their 
relief.  Every  morning  as  the  paper  comes, 
the  first  question  is  '  What  is  the  last  ac- 
count from  Memphis,  Grenada,  and  New 
Orleans.'" — Extract  from  a  private  letter  of 
Dr.  Holmes. 

When  ruthful  time  the  South' s  memor- 
ial places  — 
Her  heroes'  graves  —  had  wreathed  in 
grass  and  flowers ; 

When  Peace  ethereal,  crowned  by  all  her 
graces, 
Returned    to  make   more  bright  the 
summer  hours ; 

When    doubtful     hearts    revived,    and 
hopes  stow  stronger: 


When  old  sore-cankering  wounds  that 
pierced  and  stung. 
Throbbed  with  their  first,  mad.  feverous 
pain  no  longer, 
While  the  fair  future  spake  with  flat- 
tering tongue ; 
When  once,  once  more  she  felt  her  pulses 
beating 
To  rhythms  of  healthful  joy  and  brave 
desire : 
Lo!    round  her  doomed  horizon  darkly 
meeting, 
A  pall  of  blood-red  vapors  veined  with 
tire! 

O!   ghastly  portent  of  fast-coming  sor- 
rows ! 
Of  doom   that    blasts  the   blood   and 
blights  the  breath, 
Robs  youth  and  manhood  of  all  golden 
morrows  — 
And    life's   clear    goblet    brims   with 
wine  of  death!  — 
O !  swift  fulfilment  of  this  portent  dreary ! 
O!   nightmare  rule  of  ruin,  racked  by 
fears. 
Heartbroken  wail,  and  solemn  miserere, 
Imperious  anguish,  and  soul-melting 
tears ! 
O!  faith,  thrust  downward  from  celestial 
splendors, 
O!  love  grief-bound,  with  palely-mur- 
murous mouth! 
O!   agonized  by   life's  supreme  surren- 
ders — 
Behold   her  now  —  the  scourged  and 
suffering  South! 

No  balm  in  Gilead  ?  nay,  but  while  her 
forehead 
Pallid  and  drooping,  lies  in  foulest  dust, 
There  steals  across  the  desolate  spaces 
torrid, 
A  voice  of  manful  cheer  and  heavenly 
trust, 
A   hand   redeeming   breaks  the   frozen 
starkness 
Of  palsied  nerve,  and  dull,  despondent 
brain : 


300 


LATER  POEMS. 


Eolls  back    the    curtain    of    malignant 

darkness, 
And  shows  the  eternal  blue  of  heaven 

again  — 
Revealing  there,  o'er  worlds  convulsed 

and  shaken, 
That    face  whose   mystic  tenderness 

enticed 
To  hope  new-born  earth's  lost  bereaved, 

forsaken ! 
Ah !  still  beyond  the  tempest  smiles  the 

Christ! 

Whose  voice  ?  Whose  hand  ?  Oh,  thanks, 
divinest  Master, 
Thanks     for    those    grand     emotions 
which  impart 
Grace  to  the  North  to  feel  the  South' s 
disaster, 
The  South  to  bow  with  touched  and 
cordial  heart ! 
Now,  now  at  last  the  links  which  war 
had  broken 
Are  welded  fast,  at  mercy's  charmed 
commands ; 
Now,  now  at  last  the  magic  words   are 
spoken 
Which  blend  in  one  two  long-divided 
lands! 
O  North!  you  came  with  warrior  strife 
and  clangor; 
You   left  our  youth   one  gory  burial 
ground ; 
But  love,  more  potent  than  your  haughti- 
est anger, 
Subdues   the  souls  which  hate  could 
only  wound ! 


THE  RETURN  OF  PEACE. 

[Written  by  request  of  the  committee  of 
arrangements,  for  the  opening  ceremonies  of 
the  International  Cotton  Exposition,  in  At- 
lanta, Georgia,  Oct.  5,  1881. 

I  HAD  a  vision  at  that  mystic  hour, 
When  in  the  ebon  garden  of  the  Night, 

i'looms  the  Cimmerian  flower 
Of  doubt  and  darkness,  cowering  from 
the  lisrht. 


I    seemed    to    stand  on    a    vast  lonely 
height, 
Above  a  city  ravished  and  o'erthrown, 
The  air   about   me   one   long  lingering 
moan 
Of  lamentation  like  a  dreary  sea 
Scourged  by   the  storm   to  murmurous 
weariness ; 
Then,  from  dim  levels  of  mist-folded 
ground 
Borne  upward  suddenly. 
j   Burst  the  deep-rolling  stress 
|       Of  jubilant  drums,  blent  with  the  sil- 
very sound 
l   Of  lone-drawn  biiErle  notes  —  the  clash  of 
swords 
(Outflashed  by  alien  lords)  — 
l   And  warrior-voices  wild  with  victory. 

|   They  could  not  quell  the  grieved  and 

shuddering  air, 
]   That  breathed  about  me  its  forlorn  de- 
spair : 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  stern  Triumph 
sped 

To  one  whose  hopes  were  dead, 

And  flaunting  there  his  fortune's  ruddier 
grace. 

Smote  —  with  a  taunt  —  wan  Misery  in 
the  face! 

Lo !  far  away, 
(For  now  my  dream  grows  clear  as  lu- 
minous day,) 
\   The   victor's   camp-fires   gird    the    city 
I  round ; 

But  she,  unrobed,  discrowned  — 
A  new  Andromeda,  beside  the  main 
Of  her  own  passionate  pain ; 
Bowed,  naked,  shivering  low  — 
Veils  the  soft  gleam  of  melancholy  eyes, 

Yet  lovelier  in  their  woe,  — 
Alike  from  hopeless  earth  and  hopeless 

skies. 
No  Perseus,  for  her  sake,  serenely  fleet, 
Shall   cleave   the   heavens  with  winged 
and  shining  feet:  — 
Ah  me!  the  maid  is  lost  — 
For  sorrow,  like  keen  frost 


THE  RETURN  OF  PEACE. 


301 


Shall   eat  into    her    being's    anguished 

core  — 
Atlanta  (not  Andromeda  in  this), 
What  outside  helper  can  bring  back  her 

bliss  ? 
Can  re-illume,   beyond    its   storm-built 

bar, 
Her  youth's  auroral  star, 
Or  wake  the  aspiring  heart  that  sleeps 

forever  more. 

O !  lying  prophet  of  a  sombre  mood, 
This  city  of  our  love 
Is  no  poor,  timorous  dove, 
To  crouch  and  die  unstruggling  in  the 

mire; 

If,  for  a  time,  she  yields  to  force  and  fire, 

Blinded  by  battle-smoke,  and  drenched 

with  blood, 

Still  must  that  dauntless  hardihood 

Drawn  to  her  veins  from  out  the  iron 

hills, 
(Nerving  the  brain  that  toils,  the  soul 

that  wills, ) 
Shake    off    the    lotus-languishment    of 

grief ! 
I  see  her  rise  and  clasp  her  old  belief, 
In   God  and  goodness  —  with  imperial 

glance, 
Face  the  dark  front  of  frowning  Circum- 
stance, — 
While  trusting  only  to  her  strong  right 
arm 
To  wrench  from  deadly  harm, 
All   civic   blessings   and    fair    fruits   of 


peace 


High-souled     to     gain    (despite     her 

ravished  years), 
And  dragon-forms  of  monstrous  doubts 

and  fears, 
The  matchless  splendor  of  Toil's  "  golden 

fleece!" 

I  see  her  rise,  and  strive  with  strenuous 
hands  firmly  to  lay 
The   fresh   foundations   of    a    nobler 
sway  — 
War-wasted  lands 
Laden  with  ashes,  gray  and  desolate  — 


Touched  by  the  charm  of  some  regener- 
ate fate  — 
Flush  into  golden  harvests  prodigal ; 
Set  by  the  steam-god's  fiery  passion  free, 

I  hear  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  ponderous  iron-clamped  machinery, 
Shake,  as  with  earthquake  thrill,  the 
factory  halls ; 
While  round  the  massive  walls 
Slow    vapor,    like    a     sinuous    serpent 
steals  — 
Through    which    revolve    in    circles, 
great  or  small, 
The  deafening  thunders  of  the  tireless 
wheels ! 

Far  down  each  busy  mart 
That  throbs  and  heaves  as  with  a  human 
heart 
Quick  merchants  pass,  some  debonair 
and  gay, 
With  undimmed,  youthful  locks  — 
Some  wrinkled,  sombre,  gray  — 
But  all  with  one  accord 
Dreaming  of  him  —  their  lord  — 
The  mighty  monarch  of  the  realm  of 

stocks ! 
And  year  by  year  her  face  more  frankly 

bright, 
Glows  with  the  ardor  of   the  bloodless 
fight 
For    bounteous     empire     O'er     her 

cherished  South. 
More  sweet  the  smile  upon  her  maiden 
mouth, 
Just  rounding  to  rare  curves  of  woman- 
hood : 
Because  all  unwithstood 
The  magic  of  her  power  and  stately  pride 
Hath  called  from  many  a  clime 
Of  tropic  sunshine  and  of  winter  rime, 
The  world's  skilled  art  and  science  to 
her  side ; 
Hence  from  her  transient  tomb, 
Three  lustra  since,   a  hideous  spot  to 
see  — 
Grows  the  majestic  tree 
Of  heightened   and   green-leavecl   pros- 
perity. 


802 


LATER   POEMS. 


Hence,  her  broad  gardens  bloom 
With  rose  and   lily,   and  all   llowers  of 
balm. 
And  hence  above  the  lines 
Of  her  vast  railways,  droop  the  laden 
vines  — 
A  luscious    largess    thro"    the    summer 
calm ! 

Feeling  her  veins  so  full  of  lusty  blood. 
That  pulsed  within  them  like  a  rhyth- 
mic flood, 
And  eager  for  sweet  sisterhood, —the 
bond 

Blissful  and  fond, 
That  yet   may   hold   all   nations  in  its 
thrall, 
Atlanta  —  from   a  night  of    splendid 
dreams, 
Roused   by   soft  kisses  of  the  morning 
beams, 
Decreed  a  glorious  festival 
Of  art  and  commerce  in  her  brave 
domain ; 
She  sent  her  summons   on  the  courier 
breeze ; 
Or  thro'  the  lightning  winged  wire 
Flashed  forth  her  soul's  desire:  — 
.Swiftly  it  passed. 
O'er  native  hills  and  streams  and  prairies 
vast,  — 
And  o'er  waste  barriers  of   dividing 
seas 
'Till  from  all  quarters,  like  quick  tongues 

of  flame. 
That  warm,  but  burn  not,  —  cordial  an- 
swers came, 
And  waftage  of  benignant  messages. 

Thus,    thus   it   is    a    mighty   concourse 

meets 
O'erflowing  squares  and  streets  — 
Borne  at  flood-tide  toward  the  guarded 

ground, 
Where  treasures  of  two  hemispheres  are 

found, 
To  tax  the  inquiring  mind,  the  curious 

eye! 
*>a'n  of  the  upland  snd  r!ar.v>r'yer>^.i?. 


In    yellow   stalks,    or    sifted    meal    for 

bread ; 
Unnumbered   births  of   Ceres  clustered 
nigh ; 
Beholding     which  —  as     touched     by 
tropic  heat, — 
(The  old-world  picture  never  run  grow 

old, 
Nor  the  deep  love  that  thrills  it  dumb 

and  cold)  — 
Clear  fancy  looks  on  Boaz  in  the  wheat, 
And  in  her  simple  truth. 
The  tender  eyes  of  Ruth 
Holding  the  garnered  fragments  at  his 
feet ! 

But  piled  o'er  all,   thro'   many  an   un- 
bound bale 

Peering  to  show  its  snow-white  softness 
pale, 

—  Snow-white,  yet  warm,  and  destined 
to  be  furled 
In  some  auspicious  day. 
For  which  we  yearn  and  pray, 

Round   half   the   naked   misery   of    the 
world, 

A  fleece  more  rich  than  Jason's,  glances 
down. 

Ah !  well  we  know  no  monarch's  jewelled 
crown. 
No  marvellous  koh-i-noor, 

Won,    first    perchance,    from    gulfs   of 
human  gore. 

Or  life-toil  of  swart  millions,  gaunt  and 
poor. 
Hath  e'er  outshone  its  peerless  sover- 
eignty. 

The  wings  of  song  unfold 
Towards  thy  noontide-gold ; 
The  eyes  of  song  are  clear, 
(Turned  on  thy  broadening  sphere) 

To  mark,  oh !  city  of  the  midland- weald, 

And  follow  thy  fair  fortunes  far  afield  — 
The  years  unborn, 
Doubtless  must  bring  to  thee 

Trials  to  test  thy  spirit's  constancy; 

(While  unthrift  aliens  wear  the  mask  of 


THE   RETURN   OF  PEACE. 


303 


Financial    shocks     without     thee     anil 
within: 

Wrought  by  shrewd  moneyed  Shylocks 
hot  to  win 

Their  brazen  game  of  monstrous  usury; 

Ravage  of  bandit  "  rings  "  whose  bound- 
less maw 

Can  swallow  all  things  glibly,  save  —  the 
law ! 
And  many  a  subtler  ill 
Sudden    and    subtle    as    the  ambush 
laid, 


By  black-browed  "  stranglers "  'mid  an 
Orient  glade : 
But  thou,  with  keenest  will, 

Shalt  cut   the  bonds  of   stealthy  fraud 
apart, 

And  if  force  fronts  thee  with  a  murder- 
ous blade. 

Pierce  the  rash  son  of  Anak  to  the  heart! 

Oh!  queen!  thy  brilliant  horoscope 
Was  cast  by  Helios   in   the   halls   of 
hope ; 


"  War-wasted  lands  .  .  . 
Touched  by  the  charm  of  some  regenerate  fate- 
Flush  into  golden  harvests  prodigal." 


And  hope  becomes  fulfilment,   as  thy 

tread  — 
Firm,  placed  between  the  living  and  the 
dead  — 
Wins  the  high  grade  which  owns   a 
heavenward  slope : 
For  force  and  fraud  undone. 
And  stormless  summits  won. 
In  thee  I  view  heaven's   purpose   per- 
fected : 
Thou  shalt  be  empress  of  all  peaceful 
ties. 
All  potent  industries, 


All  world-embracing  magnanimities: 
A  warrior-queen   no  more,   but  mailed 
in  love. 
Thy   spear   a   fulgent   shaft    of    sun- 
steeped  grain : 
Thy  shield  a  buckler,  the  field-fairies  wove 
Of  strong  green  grasses,  in  the  silvery 

noon 
Of  some  full  harvest -moon. 
Thy   stainless   crown,   red    roses,   blent 

with  white! 
Now-,  throned  above   the  half-forgotten 
pain 


304 


LATER  POEMS. 


Of  dreadful  war,  and  war's  remorseless 
blight, 
Thy  heart-throbs  glad  and  great, 
Sending  through  all  thy  Titan-statured 

state, 
Fresh  life  and  gathering  tides  of  grander 
power 
From  glorious  hour  to  hour, 
Thousands  thy  deeds  shall  bless 
With   strenuous   pride,  toned  down  to 

tenderness : 
•Shall  bless  thy  deeds,  exalt  thy  name; 
Till  every  breeze  that  sweeps  from  hill 

to  lea, 
And  every  wind  that  furrows  the  deep 

sea, 
Shall   waft  the   fragrance  of    thy   soul 

abroad 
The  sweetness  and  the  splendor  of  thy 

fame :  — 
For  thou,  midmost  a  large  and  opulent 

store, 
Of  all  things  wrought  to  meet  a  nation's 
need, 
Thou,  nobly  pure, 
Of  any  darkening  taint  of  selfish  greed, — 
Wert  pre-ordained  to  be 
Purveyor  of  divinest  charity,  — 
The  love-commissioned  almoner  of  God. 


YOUKTOWN  CENTENNIAL    LYRIC. 

[Written  at  the  request  of  the  Yorktown  Cen- 
tennial Commission,  appointed  by  Congress, 
to  conduct  the  celebration  of  the  surrender  of 
Lord  Cornwallis,  to  the  combined  forces  of 
France  and  America,  upon  the  19th  of  Oct.  1781, 
at  Yorktown,  Va.] 

Hark,  hark!   down  the  century's  long 

reaching  slope 
To  those  transports  of   triumph,  those 

raptures  of  hope, 
The  voices  of   main   and  of   mountain 

combined 
In  glad  resonance  borne  on  the  wings  of 

the  wind, 


The  bass  of  the  drum  and  the  trumpet 
that  thrills 

Through  the  multiplied  echoes  of  jubi- 
lant hills. 

And  mark  how  the  years  melting  up- 
ward like  mist 

Which  the  breath  of  some  splendid  en- 
chantment has  kissed, 

Eeveal  on  the  ocean,  reveal  on  the  shore 

The  proud  pageant  of  conquest  that 
graced  them  of  yore, 

When  blended  forever  in  love  as  in 
fame 

See,  the  standard  which  stole  from  the 
starlight  its  flame, 

And  type  of  all  chivalry,  glory,  romance, 

The  lilies,  the  luminous  lilies  of  France. 

Oh,  stubborn  the  strife  ere  the   conflict 

was  won ! 
And  the  wild  whirling  war  wrack  half 

stifled  the  sun. 
The  thunders  of  cannon  that  boomed 

on  the  lea, 
But  re-echoed   far   thunders   pealed  up 

from  the  sea, 
Where  guarding  his  sea  lists,  a  knight 

on  the  waves, 
Bold  De  Grasse  kept  at  bay  the  bluff 

bull-dogs  of  Graves. 
The  day  turned  to  darkness,  the  night 

changed  to  fire, 
Still    more    fierce   waxed    the   combat, 

more  deadly  the  ire, 
LTndimmed  by  the  gloom,   in    majestic 

advance, 
Oh,  behold  where  they  ride  o'er  the  red 

battle  tide, 
Those    banners    united    in   love    as   in 

fame, 
The  brave    standard   which  drew  from 

the  star-beams  their  flame, 
And  type  of  all  chivalry,  glory,  romance, 
The  lilies,  the  luminous  lilies  of  France. 

No  respite,  no   pause;    by  the    York's 

tortured  flood. 
The  grim  Lion  of  England  is  writhing 

in  blood. 


ON   THE   PERSECUTION   OF   THE   JEWS  IN  RUSSIA. 


305 


Cornwallis  may  chafe  and  coarse  Tarle- 

ton  aver, 
A.s  he    sharpens  his    broadsword    and 

buckles  his  spur, 
"  This  blade,  which  so  oft  has  reaped 

rebels  like  grain, 
Shall  noiv  harvest  for  death  the  rude  yeo- 
men again.  " 
Yain  boast!  for  ere  sunset  he's  flying  in 

fear, 
With  the  rebels  he  scouted  close,   close 

in  his  rear, 
While  the  French  on  his  flank  hurl  such 

volleys  of  shot 
That  e'en  Gloucester's  redoubt  must  be 

growing  too  hot. 
Thus  wedded  in  love  as  united  in  fame, 
Lo!  the  standard  which  stole  from  the 

starlight  its  flame, 
And  type  of  all  chivalry,  glory,  romance, 
The  lilies,  the  luminous  lilies  of  France. 

O    morning    superb!    when    the    siege 

reached  its  close; 
See!   the  sundawii   outbloom,   like  the 

alchemist's  rose! 
The  last  wreaths  of  smoke   from   dim 

trenches  upcurled, 
Are  transformed  to  a  glory  that  smiles 

on  the  world. 
J  oy?  j°y !  Save  the  wan,  wasted  front  of 

the  foe, 
With  his  battle-flags  furled  and  his  arms 

trailing  low ;  — 
Kespect  for  the  brave !    In  stern  silence 

they  yield, 
And  in  silence  they   pass  with   bowed 

heads  from  the  field. 
Then  triumph   transceudent!   so  Titan 

of  tone 
That  some  vowed  it  must  startle  King 

George  on  his  throne. 

When  Peace  to  her  own,  timed  the  pulse 
of  the  land, 

And  the  war  weapon  sank  from  the  war- 
wearied  hand, 

Young  Freedom  upborne  to  the  height 
of  the  sraal 


She  had  yearned  for  so  long  with  deep 

travail  of  soul, 
A  song  of  her  future    raised,  thrilling 

and  clear, 
Till  the  woods   leaned   to  hearken,  the 

hill  slopes  to  hear:  — 
Yet  fraught  with  all  magical  grandeurs 

that  gleam 
On  the  hero's  high  hope,  or  the  patriot's 

dream, 
What  future,  tho'  bright,  in  cold  shadow 

shall  cast 
The  proud  beauty  that  haloes  the  brow 

of  the  past. 
Oh !  wedded  in  love,  as  united  in  fame, 
See  the  standard  which  stole  from  the 

starlight  its  flame, 
And  type  of  all  chivalry,  glory,  romance, 
The  lilies,  the  luminous  lilies  of  France. 


ON  THE  PERSECUTION  OF  THE  JEWS 
IN  RUSSIA. 

"  Be  advised!  Do  not  trample  upon  my  peo- 
ple. Nations  and  men  that  oppress  us  do  not 
thrice." — From  Charles  Reade's  "  Never  Too 
Late  to  Mend.'' 

What  murmurs  are  these  that  so  wo- 
fully  rise 
Into    heart-storms    of     agony    borne 
from  afar '? 
A  tempest  of  passion,  a  tumult  of  sighs  ? 
There  is  dread  on  the  earth,  and  stern 
grief  in  the  skies, 
While  the  nations,  appalled,  watch  the 
realm  of  the  Czar! 

Can  humanity's  sun  have  gone  down  in 

an  hour, 
Or  a  fiend  have  struck  mercy's  soft 

key-note  ajar, 
That  upwhirled  on  the  fierce  winds  of 

madness  and  power, 
This    cloud  —  with    its    hail   of    harsh 

hatreds  —  should  lower 
O'er   those    who    still    call    on   their 

"  father,"  the  Czar  ? 


806 


LATE  11    POEMS. 


Can    hell     have     burst     upward,     and 

spawned  from  its  womb 
The  worst   of  all  demons  that  menace 

and  mar  ? 
O    (rodl    see     an    empire    reeking    in 

gloom  — 
Hark!  the  death-shock,  the  shriek,  the 

wild  volleys  of  doom  — 
Ay !  the  riot  of  hell  shakes  the  land  of 

the  Czar! 

The   fields  are  flame-girdled,  the  rivers 
roll  red 
Through   the   sulphurous   fumes   and 
swift  ravage  of  war, 
A  war  on  the  helpless,  unhelmeted  head. 
Which  tortures  the  living  and  spares  not 
the  dead ; 
lb  he  sleeping,  or  dumb,  their  "good 
father"  the  Czar  '.J 

Ah.  no!  — through  the  corridors  stately 

and  vast 
Of  his  palace  that  gleams  like  a  pale 

polar  star. 
On  a  gale   from  the  south  these   black 

tidings  have  passed: 
He  hears!  and  the  lightnings  of  justice   i 

at  last 
Quiver  hissing  and  hot  in  the  hand  of 

the  Czar! 

The  world  holds  its  breathing  to  mark 
them  in  flame 
On  their  limitless  course  that  no  bul- 
wark can  bar: 

But  instead,  through  his  wily  state  par- 
asite came 

A    rescript    so    false,    its    unspeakable 
shame 
Should   haunt   to  his  death  the  dark 
dreams  of  the  Czar ! 

Xo  word  for  the  victims,  all  butchered 

and  bare. 
By  the  hearth-stone  defiled,  and  the 

blood-tainted  lar; 
For  the, poor  ravished  maid,  whose  sole 

shroud  is  her  hair; 


For  the  mother's  lament,  or  the  father's 
despair: 
No  pity  for  such  thrills  the  thought  of 
the  Czar; 

But  his  spirit  leans,  tender  and  yearn- 
ing, above 
The  mad  helots  who  riot,  rage,  murder 
afar ; 

To  them  he    is  soft  as  a  nest-brooding 
dove ; 

But    the    murdered!     alas!     they    are 
stinted  of  love. 
Bight,  justice,  or  ruth,  in  the  creed  of 
the  Czar! 

Shall  grim  carnage   goad   onward,  em- 
bruted  and  base. 
The  black  coursers  that  strain  at  her 
iron-wrought  car. 
While  those  of  high  purpose  and  fetter- 
less race 
Idly  gaze  on  the  foul  mediaeval  disgrace 
Which    poisons    all    earth    from   yon 
realm  of  the  Czar  ? 

Wake,  England,  your  thunders!  America, 

fling 
To  the   wind   the   shrewd  statecrafts 

that  hamper,  or  mar! 
Blend  your  voices  of  wrath!  your  deep 

warnings  outring, 
To  smite  the  dulled  ears,  and  blind  soul 

of  the  king  — 
Who     rules  —  Heaven     help      them! 

those  realms  of  the  Czar! 


ASS ASS IN  A  TIOX. 

O    blinded    readers    of    the   scroll   of 

time. 
Think  ye  that  freedom  yields  her  hand 

to  crime  ? 

Or  the   fair   whiteness   of  her   virginal 

bud 
Of  heavenly  hope,  would  desecrate  with 

blood  ? 


ENGLAND. 


307 


Her  eves  are  chastened  lightnings,  and 

the  fire 
Of  her  divinely  purified  desire 

Burns    not    in    ambush    by    assassins 

trod. 
But  on  the  holiest  mountain  heights  of 

God! 

So.  ye  that  fain  would  meet  her  fond 

embrace, 
Purge     the     base     soul,     unmask     the 

treacherous  face, 

Drop  bowl  or  dagger  while  ye  bring  her 

naught 
But    the    grand   worship    of    a    selfless 

thought ! 


ENGLAND. 

Laxd  of  my  father's  love,   my  father's 
race. 
How    long    must    I    in    weary    exile 
sigh 
To   meet   thee.  O  my  empress,    face  to 
face. 
And  kiss  thy  radiant   robes  before  I 
die  ? 

O  England!  in  my  creed,  the  humblest 
dust 
Beside  thy  haunted  shores  and  shadowy 
streams. 
Is  touched  by  memories  and  by  thoughts 
august. 
By    golden     histories     and    majestic 
dreams. 

O  England!  to   my   mood   thy  lowliest 
flower 
Feeds  on  the  smiles  of  some  transcen- 
dent sky  : 
Thy  frailest   fern-leaf  shrines  a  spell  of 
power! 
Ah!  shall  I  walk  thy  woodlands  ere  T 
die? 


Thy  sacred  places,  where   dead   heroes 
rest 
By  temples  set  in  ivy-twilight  deep; 
Thy  fragrant  fields  topped  by  the  sky- 
lark's crest; 
Thy  hidden  waters  breathing  balms  of 
sleep : 

Thy  castled  homes,  and  granges  veiled 
afar 
In  antique  dells ;  thy  ruins  hoar  and 
high; 
Thy  mountain  tarns,  each  like  a  glitter- 
ing star. 
Shall  I  behold  their  marvels  ere  I  die  ? 

Thine  opulent   towns,  throned  o'er  the 
subject-main, 
Girt  by  brave  fleets,  their  weary  canvas 
furled. 
Deep-laden  argosies  through  storm  and 
strain, 
Borne  from  the  utmost  boundaries  of 
the  world 

O'er  all.  thy  London!  every  stone  with 

breath 

Indued  to  question,  counsel,  or  reply; 

City    of    mightiest  life    and   mightiest 

death. 

Shall  I  behold  thy  splendors  ere  I  die  ? 

But  most  I  yearn,   in  body  as  heart,  to 
bow 
Before  our  England's  poets,  strong  and 
wise, 
Watch   some  grand  thought  uplift    the 
laureate's  brow. 
And  flash  or  fade  in  Swinburne's  fiery 
eyes. 

And   other  glorious   minstrels   would  I 
greet 
Bound  to  my  life  by  many  a  rhythmic 
tie. 
When  shall  I  hear  their  welcomes  frankly 
sweet. 
And  clasp  those  cordial  hands,  before 
I  die  ? 


308 


LATER   POEMS. 


Fair  blow  the  breezes ;  high  are  sail  and 
steam ; 
Soon   must   I  mark  brave    England's 
brightening  lea; 
Fulfilled  at  length,  the  large  and  lustrous 
dream 
Which  lured  me  long  across  the  sum- 
mer sea! 

Alas!   a  moment's  triumph!  —  false  as 
vain ! 
O'er  dreary  hills  the  gaunt  pines  moan 
and  sigh; 
Pale  grows  my  dream,  pierced  through 
by  bodeful  pain ; 
England!   I  shall  not  see  thee  ere  I 
die! 


TO  LONGFELLOW. 

(on  iieapjxg  he  was  ill.) 

O  thou,  whose  potent  genius  (like  the 

sun 
Tenderly   mellowed    by   a    rippling 

haze) 
Hast  gained   thee  all  men's  homage, 

love  and  praise, 
Surely  thy  web  of  life  is  not  outspun, 
Thy   glory   rounded,   thy  last    guerdon 

won ! 
Xay,  poet,  nay !  —  from  thought's  calm 

sunset  ways 
May  new-born   notes    of   undegenerate 

lays 
Charm  back  the  twilight  gloom  ere  day 

be  done ! 

But  past  the  poet  crowned  I  see  the 
friend  — 
Frank,  courteous,  true  —  about  whose 
locks  of  gray, 
Like  golden  bees,  some  glints  of  summer 
stray ; 
Clear-eyed,   with    lips    half    poised 
'twixt  smile  and  sigh; 
A  brow  in  whose  soul-mirroring  man- 
hood blend 
Grace,  sweetness,  power  and  mag- 
nanimity! 


"L'HILIP  MY  KING."* 

"Philip,  my  king,"  ay,  still  thou  art  a 
king, 
Though  storms  of  sorrow  on  thy  suf- 
fering head 
Have  flashed  and  thundered  through 
the  midnight's  dread; 

Ah,  lofty   soul!   fraught  with  the  sky- 
lark's wing 

To  capture  heaven,  the  sky-lark's  voice 
to  sing 

Such    notes     ethereal     through   veiled 
brightness  shed 

Their  gracious  power  to  liquid  pathos 
wed, 

Thrills  like  the  soft  rain-  pulses  of  the 
spring: 

Banned  from  earth's  day  —  thine  inward 

sight  expands 
Above  the  night-bound  senses'  birth  or 

bars ; 
Lord  of  a  larger  realm,  of  subtler  scope, 
Where  thou  at  last  shalt  press  the  lips  of 

Hope, 
And    feel    God's   angel   lift  in   radiant 

hands 
Thy  life  from  darkness  to  a  place  of 

stars ! 

Meanwhile,  alas!  despite  these  inward 
spells 
Of  voice  and   vision,  and  fond  hope 

to  be, 
Perchance, — though  vaguely  shadowed 
forth  to  thee, — 
Oft-times  thy    thought  but  echoes  the 

deep  knells 
Of  buried  joy;  oft-times  thy  spirit  swells 
With  moaning  memories, like  a  smitten 

sea, 
When  the  worn  tempest  wandering  up 
the  lea, 
Leaves  a  low  wind  to   breathe  its  wild 
farewells. 

*  "  Philip  my  Kin//,"  Miss  Mulock's  exquisite 
song,  all  lovers  of  poetry  must  recall.  The 
little  hero  of  that  lyric  was  Philip  Marston, 
the  author's  god-son. 


A   FLEA   FOR    THE    GRAY. 


309 


O    brother !  —  pondering     dreary     and 
apart 
O'er  the  dead  blossoms  of  deciduous 

years : 
O  poet !  fed  too  long  on  bitter  tears ! 


I  waft,  o'er  seas,  a  white-winged  courier- 
dove, 

Bearing  to  thee  this  balmy  spray  of  love, 
Warm  from  the  nested  fragrance  of  my 
heart. 


*rfl 


W  f    /        "Old  passions  may  be  purged  of  blood, 
ffl     \/  Old  memories  cannot  die. 


A   PLEA    FOR    THE   GRAY. 


[A  discussion  has  recently  been  inaugurated  in  the  city  of  Mobile,  Ala.,  among  the  military 
companies,  as  to  the  propriety  of  changing  the  Gray  for  the  Blue  or  some  other  uniform.] 


When    the    land'  s    martyr,    mid    her 
tears, 

Outbreathed  his  latest  breath, 
The  discord  of  long,  festering  years, 

Lay  also  dumb  in  death  : 
Our  souls  a  new-born  friendship  drew 

With  spells  of  kindliest  sway; 
At  last,  at  last,  the  conquering  Blue 

Blent  with  the  vanquished  Gray ! 


Yet,  wlio  thro'  this  south-land  of  ours, 

While  faith  and  love  are  free. 
But  still  must  cast  memorial  flowers 

Across  the  grave  of  Lee  ? 
And  oft  their  ancient  grief  renew 

O'er  "  Stonewall's  "  cherished  clay  ? 
The  heart  that's  pledged  to  guard  the 
Blue 

Must  honor  still  the  Gray ! 


310 


LATER    POEMS. 


O  veterans  of  Potomac's  flood, 

Or  Yicksburg's  lurid  sky, 
Old  passions  may  be  purged  of  blood, 

Old  memories  cannot  die! 
They  (ill  your  eyes  with  fiery  dew. 

Revive  your  manhood's  May, 
And  past  the  bright  victorious  Blue, 

Bring  back  the  stainless  Gray! 

O  martyrs  of  the  desperate  fight, 

All  weak  and  broken  now. 
With  shattered  nerves,  or  blasted  sight. 

Frail  anus  and  furrowed  brow! 
What  think  ye  of  the  patriot  view 

Flashed  on  your  minds  to-day  ? 
Too  old  to  don  the  prosperous  Blue, 

Ye  clasp  your  tattered  Gray! 

From  many  a  worn  and  wasted  mound. 

And  dust-encumbered  clod. 
The  voices  of  dead  heroes  sound. 

Rising  from  earth  to  God! 
"Our   doom   was  dark,   our  lives  were 
true. 

Ah !  casl  not  quite  away. 
What  time  ye  hail  the  favored  Blue  — 

( >ld  dreams  that  crowned  the  Gray!*' 

Can  honor  in  his  sacred  grave 

Less  fair  and  glorious  be  ? 
Can  faith  on  fortune's  fickle  wave, 

Change  with  the  changeful  sea? 
Beware  lest  what  ye  rashly  do 

Should  end  in  shamed  dismay, 
And  all  pure  champions  of  the  Blue, 

Scorn  traitors  to  the  Gray! 


UNION  OF  BLUE  AND    GRAY. 

[Suggested  by  the  recent  visit  of  Governor 

Bigelow    and  the  Connecticut    companies   to 
Charlesti  hi,  Soutli  Carolina.] 

The  Blue  is  marching  south  once  more, 
With  serried  steel  and  stately  tread: 

Their  martial  music  pealed  before, 
Their  flan  of  stars  flashed  overhead. 


Ah!  not  through  storm  and  stress  they 

come. 
The  thunders  of  old  hate  are  dumb, 
And  frank  as  clear  October's  ray 
This  meeting  of  the  Blue  and  Gray. 

A  Phoenix  from  her  outworn  fires. 

Her  gory  ashes,  rising  free. 
Fair  (  harleston  with  her  stainless  spires 

Gleams  by  the  silver-stranded  sea. 
No  hurtling  hail  nor  hostile  ball 
Breaks  through   the  treacherous  battle- 

pall; 
True  voices  speak  from  hearts  as  true, 
For  strife  lies  dead  "twixt  Gray  and  Blue. 

Grim  Sumter,  like  a  Titan  maimed, 
Still  glooms  beyond  his  shattered  keep; 

But  where  his  bolts  of  lightning  flamed 
There  broods  a  quiet,  mild  as  sleep; 

His  granite  base,  long  cleansed  of  blood, 

Is  circled  by  a  golden  flood. 

Type  of  that  peace  whose  sacred  sway 

Enfolds  the  Blue,  exalts  the  Gray. 

The  sea-tides  faintly  rise  afar. 

And  — wings  of  all  the  breezes  furled, 
Seem  slowly  borne  o'er  beach  and  bar, 

Dream-murmurings     from     a     spirit 
world. 
Through  throbbing  drum  and  bugle-trill 
The  distant  calm  seems  deeper  still  — 
Deep  as  that  faith  whose  cordial  dew 
Hath  soothed  the  Gray  and  charmed  the 
Blue. 

O'er  Ashley's  breast  the  autumn  smiles, 

All  mellowed  in  her  hazy  fold. 
While  the  white  arms  of  languid  isles 

Are  girdled  by  ethereal  gold. 
All  Nature  whispers:  war  is  o'er. 
Fierce  feuds  have  fled  our  sea  and  shore; 
Old  wrongs  forget,  old  ties  renew, 
O  heroes  of  the  Gray  and  Blue! 

The  southern  Palm  and  northern  Pine 
No  longer   clash    through    leaf  and 
bough ; 

Tranquillities  of  depth  benign 

Have  bound  their  blending  foliage  now, 


THE   KIN  (J-    OF   THE   PLOW. 


311 


Or,  tranced  by  cloudless  star  and  moon. 

He  reared  the  pure  ensign  of  Ceres 

Serene  they  shine  in  sun-lit  noon. 

By     meadow,     and     mountain,     and 

Their  equal  shadows  softly  play 

flood, 

Above  the  Blue,  across  the  Gray. 

And  the  long,  leafy  gold  of  his  harvests 

The  earth-sprites  and  air-sprites  had 

spun, 

Grew    rhythmic    when    swept    by    the 

THE  KIXG    OF  THE  PLOW. 

breezes, 

Grew    royal,    when    kissed     by     the 

The  sword   is   re-sheathed   in  its  scab- 

sun; 

bard. 

Before  the  stern  charm  of  his  patience 

The  rifle  hangs  safe  on  the  wall; 

What  rock-rooted  forces  must  bow ! 

No  longer  we  quail  at  the  hungry 

Come!    crown   him  with  corn-leaf   and 

Hot  rush  of  the  ravenous  ball, 

wheat-leaf. 

The  war-cloud  has  hurled  its  last  light- 

The king,  the  bold  king  of  the  plow ! 

ning, 
Its  last  awful  thunders  are  still. 

Through      valleys     of      balm-drooping 

While  the  demon  of  conflict  in  Hades 

myrtles, 

Lies  fettered  in  force  as  in  will  : 

By  banks  of  Arcadian  streams. 

Above  the  broad  fields  that  he  ravaged. 

Where   the   wind-songs   are   set  to  the 

What  monarch  rules  blissfully  now  ? 

mystic 

Oh!    crown    him   with    bays    that    are 

Mild  murmur  of  passionless  dreams ; 

bloodless, 

On  the  storm-haunted  uplands  of  Thule, 

The    king,    the    brave    king    of    the 

By  ice-girdled  fiords  and  floes, 

plow ! 

Alike    speeds    the    spell    of    his    god- 

hood, 

A  king!  ay!  what  ruler  more  potent 

The  bloom  of  his  heritage  glows; 

Has  ever  swayed  earth  by  his  nod  '? 

A  monarch!  yea,  more  than  a  monarch, 

A  monarch!  aye,  more  than  a  monarch, 

All  climes  to  his  prowess  must  bow ; 

A  homely,  but  bountiful  God ! 

Come   crown  him   with  bays   that   are 

He  stands  where  in  earth's  sure  protec- 

stainless, 

tion 

The    king,    the    brave    king    of    the 

The    seed-grains    are    scattered    and 

plow. 

sown, 

To  uprise  in  serene  resurrection 

Far,  far  in  earth's  uttermost  future, 

When   spring  her  soft  trumpet  hath 

As  boundless  of  splendor  as  scope, 

blown ! 

I  see  the  fair  angel!  — fruition. 

A  monarch !  yea,  more  than  a  monarch, 

Outspeed  his  high  heralds  of  hope ; 

Though  tod-drops   are  thick  on  his 

The  roses  of  joy  rain  around  him, 

brow ; 

The  lilies  of  sweetness  and  calm, 

O !  crown  him  with  corn-leaf  and  wheat- 

For  the  sword  has  been  changed  to  the 

leaf. 

plowshare, 

The    king,    the   strong    king  of    the 

The  lion  lies  down  with  the  lamb ! 

plow ! 

0!  angel-majestic  !     We  know  thee, 

Though  raised   and  transfigured  art 

Through  the  shadow  and  shine  of  past 

thou, 

ages, 

This   lord  of  life's    grand    consumma- 

(While   tyrants    were    blinded    with 

tion 

bloo-l  \ 

Wis  once  the  swart  kiwi  of  the  vlow! 

312 


LATER   POEMS. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

I. 

LONGFELLOW  DEAD. 

Ay,   it  is  well !  Crush  back  your  selfish 

tears ; 
For  from  the  half -veiled  face  of  earthly 

spring 
Hath   he  not   risen  on  heaven-aspiring 

wing 
To  reach  the  spring-tide  of  the  eternal 

years  ? 

With  life  full-orbed,  he  stands  amid  his 

peers, 
The  grand  immortals !  a  fair,  mild-eyed 

king, 
Flushing  to  hear  their  potent  welcomes 

ring 
Round  the  far  circle  of  those  luminous 

spheres. 

Mock  not  his  heavenly  cheer  with  mor- 
tal wail, 

Unless  some  human-hearted  nightin- 
gale. 

Pierced  by  grief's  thorn,  shall  give  such 
music  birth 

That  he,  the  new-winged  soul,  the 
crowned  and  shriven, 

May  lean  beyond  the  effulgent  verge  of 
heaven, 

To  catch  his  own  sweet  requiem,  borne 
from  earth ! 

Such  marvellous  requiem  were  a  paean 

too  — 
(Woe    touched     and     quivering     with 

triumphant  fire) ; 
For  him  whose   course   flashed  always 

high  and  higher, 
Is  lost  beyond  the  strange,  mysterious 

blue : 
Ah!  yet,  we  murmur,  can  this  thing  be 

true  ? 
Forever  silent  here,  that  tender  lyre, 
Tuned  to  all  gracious  themes,  all  pure 

desire, 
Whose  notes  dropped  sweet  as  honey. 

soft  as  dew  ? 


No  tears!  you  say  —  since  rounded, 
brave,  complete, 

The  poet's  work  lies  radiant  at  God's 
feet. 

Nay!  nay!  our  hearts  with  grief  must 
hold  their  tryst : 

How  dim  grows  all  about  us  and  above ! 

Vainly  we  grope  through  death's  bewil- 
dering mist, 

To  feel  once  more  his  clasp  of  human 
love ! 


ON  THE   DEATH  OF   PRESIDENT 
GARFIELD. 

I  see  the  Nation,  as  in  antique  ages, 
Crouched  with  rent  robes,  and  ashes 
on  her  head : 
Her  mournful  eyes  are  deep  with  dark 
presages. 
Her  soul  is  haunted    by  a  formless 
dread ! 

"OGod!"  she  cries,  "why  hast  Thou 
left  me  bleeding, 
Wounded  and  quivering  to  the  heart's 
hot  core  ? 
Can   fervid   faith,   winged   prayer,   and 
anguished  pleading 
Win  balm  and  pity  from  thy  heavens 
no  more  ? 

'•  I  knelt,  I  yearned,  in  agonizing  pas- 
sion, 
Breathless   to   catch   thy    ;  still  small 
voice '  from  far ; 
Now  thou  hast  answered,  but  in  awful 
fashion, 
And  stripped  our  midnight  of  its  last 
pale  star. 

''What  tears  are  given  me  in  o'ermas- 
tering  measure. 
From   fathomless    floods    of    Marah, 
darkly  free, 
AVhile  that  pure  life  I  held  my  noblest 
treasure 
Is  plunged  forever  in  death's  tideless 
sea! 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


313 


"  Hark  to  those  hollow  sounds  of  lam- 
entation, 
The  muffled  music,  the  funereal  bell; 
From  far  and  wide  on  wings  of  desola- 
tion 
Float  wild  and  wailful  voices  of  fare- 
well. 

"The  North-land  mourns  her  grief  in 
full  libation, 
Outpoured  for  him  who  died  at  vic- 
tory's goal; 
And  the  great  West,  in  solemn  ministra- 
tion, 
May    not    recall    her   hero's   shining 
soul. 

"Yea,  the  North  mourns;  the  West;  a 
stricken  mother, 
Droops   as   in   sackcloth   with  veiled 
brow  and  mouth; 
And  what  old  strifes,  what  waning  hates, 
can  smother 
The  generous  heart-throbs  of  the  pity- 
ing South '? 

"  Did  doubt  remain  ?  —  She  crushed  its 
latest  ember 
At  that  stern  moment  when  the  vic- 
tim's fall 
Changed  loveliest  summer  to  a  grim  De- 
cember, 
Paled  by  the  hiss  of  Guiteau's  murder- 
ous ball. 

"Thus  by  the   spell   of  one  vast  grief 
united 
(Where  cypress   boughs   their  death- 
cold  shadows  wave), 
My   sons,    I  trust,  a  holier  faith  have 
plighted, 
And  sealed  the  compact  by  his  sacred 
2xave." 


'Twas  thus  she  spoke;  but  still  in  pros- 
trate sorrow, 
While  lowlier  earthward  drooped  her 
brow  aiumst. 


To-day  is  dark;   vague  darkness  clouds 
to-morrow. 
Ah!  in  God's   hand  the  nations   are 
but  —  dust ! 

in. 

DEAX   STAXLEY. 

Dead!  dead!  in  sooth  bis  marbled  brow 
is  cold, 
And  prostrate  lies  that  brave,  majestic 
bead ; 
True!  his   stilled   features   own  death's 
arctic  mould, 
Yet,  by  Christ's  blood,   I  know  he  is 
not  dead ! 

Here  fades  the  cast-off  vestment  that  he 
wore, 
The  robe  of  flesh,  whence  his  true  self 
hath  fled ; 
Whate'er  be  false,  one  faith  holds  fast 
and  sure, 
Great  souls  like  his  abide  not  with  the 
dead : 

Eyried  with  God,  beyond  all  mortal  pain, 
Breathing  the   effluence    of    ethereal 
birth, 
Through  deeds  divine,  his  spirit  walks 
again, 
On  rhythmic  feet  the  mournful  paths 
of  earth! 

In   heaven   immortal,  yet  on  earth  su- 
preme, 
The  glamour  of  his  goodness  still  sur- 
vives, 
Not  in   vain    glimpses    of  a    nattering 
dream, 
But  flower  and  fruit  of  ransomed  hu- 
man lives. 

His  hopes  were  ocean-wide,  and  clasped 
mankind ; 
No  Levite  plea  his  mercy  turned  apart. 
But  wounded  souls  —  to  whom  all  else 
were  blind  — 
He  soothed  with  wine   and  balsam  of 
the  heart. 


314 


LATER   EOEMS. 


With  stainless  hands  he  reared  his  Mas- 
ter's cross; 
His  Master's  watchword    pealed  o'er 
land  and  sea; 
And  still  through  days  of  gain,  and  days 
of  loss, 
Proclaimed  the  golden  truce  of  char- 
ity. 

All  men  were  brethren  to  his  larger  creed, 
But  given   the  thought  sincere  —  the 
earnest  aim; 
God's  garden  will  not  spurn  the  humblest 
weed 
That  yearns  for  purer  air  and  loftier 
flame. 

This  sweet  evangel  of  the  unborn  years, 
Seer-like  he  spake,  as  one  that  viewed 
his  goal, 
While  the  world  felt  through  darkness 
and  through  tears, 
Mysterious   music  thrill  its   raptured 
soul. 

Dead!     nay,    not     dead!     while     eagle 
thoughts  aspire, 
Clothed  in   winged  deeds    across  the 
empyreal  height, 
And  all  the  expanding  space  is  flushed 
with  fire, 
And  deep  on  deep,  heaven  opens  to 
our  sight, — 

He  cannot  die!  yet  o'er  his  dust  we  shed 
Our  rain  of   human   sorrow;   on   his 
breast 
Cross  the  pale  palms ;  and  pulseless  heart 
and  head 
Leave  to  the  quiet  of  his  cloistered 
rest. 

Sleep,    knightly  scholar!   warrior-saint, 
repose ! 
Thy  life-force  folded  like  an  unfurled 
sail! 
Spent  is  time's  rage — its  foam  of  crested 
woes  — 
And  thou  hast  found,  at  last,  the  Holy 
Grail  ! 


rv. 

HIRAM   H.    UK.NNER. 

[Dedicated  to  the  Wife  of  this  Hero  and 
.Martyr.] 

When  the  war-drums  beat  and  the  trum- 
pets blare, 
When    banners    flaunt    in    the   stormy 

air, 
When  at  thought  of  the  deeds  that  must 

soon  be  done. 
The  hearts   of  a   thousand   leap  up  as 

one, 
Who  cotdd  not  rush  through  the  din  and 

smoke, 
The  cannon's  crash  and  the  sabre  stroke. 
Scarce    conscious   of    ebbing    blood    or 

breath. 
With  a  laugh  for  wounds  and  a  scoff  at 

death  ? 

But  when   on   the   sullen   breeze  there 

comes 
No  thrill  of  trumpets  nor  throb  of  drums, 
But  only  the  wail  of  the  sick  laid  low 
By  the  treacherous  blight  of  a  viewless 

foe  — 
Who,  then,  will  upgird  his  loins  for  fight 
With  the  loathsome  pest  in  the  poisoned 

night, 
Xo  martial  music  his  pulse  to  start. 
But  the  still,  small  voice  of  the  ruthful 

heart  ? 
Who  then  ?     Behold  him,  the  calm,  the 

brave. 
On  his  billowy  path  to  an  alien  grave! 
Serene   in   the   charm   of    his   God-like 

will. 
This  soldier  is  armored  to  save,  not  kill. 
Ah !  swiftly  he  speeds  on  the  mist-bound 

stream 
This    pilgrim    wrapped    in    his   tender 

dream. 
His  vision  of  help  for  the  sick  laid  low 
By  the  evil  spell  of  an  ambushed  foe. 

Ah!  swiftly  be  speeds 'mid  the  hollow 

boom 
Of  bells   that   are  tolling   to  death  and 

doom. 


IN  MEM01UAM. 


315 


Till  even  the  sounds  of  the  bells  grow 

still; 
For  the  hands  of  their  ringers  are  lax 

and  chill. 
And  the  hum  of  the  mourners  is  heard 

no  more 
On  the  misty  slope  and  the  vacant  shore, 
And  the  few  frail  creatures  that  greet 

him  seem 
But  the  ghosts  of  men  by    a  phantom 

stream. 

Still  the  hero  his  own  great  soul  enticed 
To  suffer  and  toil  in  the  name  of  Christ, 
He  follows  wherever  his  Lord  had  led, 
To  the  famished  hut  or  the  dying  bed. 
He  medicines  softly  the  fevered  pain; 
To  the  starving  he  bringeth  his  golden 

grain; 
And  ever  before  him  and  ever  above 
Is  the  sheen  of  the  unfurled  wings  of 

love. 

Meanwhile,  in  his  distant  home  are  those 
That  his  going  has  robbed  of  their  sweet 

repose. 
The  days  pass  by  them  like  leaden  years ; 
The  nights  are  bitter   with   tears    and 

fears  — 
Till   at   last,  by  the  lightning  glamour 

sped, 
Comes  a  name  and  date,  with  the  one 

word,  "  Dead!  " 
And  the  arms  of  the  smitten  are  lifted 

high. 
And  the  heavens  are  rent  by  an  anguished 

cry ! 

Dead !  dead !     Vain  word  for  the  wise  to 

hear! 
How  false  its  echo  on  heart  and  ear! 
To  the  earth  and  earth's  he  may  close 

his  eyes, 
But  who  dares  tell  us  a  martyr  dies? 
And  of  him  just  gone  it  were  best  to  say 
That  in  some  charmed  hour  of  night  or 

day  — 
Having  given  us  all  that  his  soul  could 

give  — 
Brave  Hiram  Benner  be<mn  to  live. 


TV.    GILMORE    SIMMS. 

A   POEM 

Delivered  on  the  night  of  the  13th  of  Decem- 
ber, 1877  "  at  the  Charlestown  Academy  of 
Music,"  as  prologue  to  the  "Dramatic  Enter- 
tainment" m  aid  of  the  "  Simms  Memorial 
fund." 

The  swift  mysterious  seasons  rise  and 
set; 

The  omnipotent  years  pass  o'er  us, 
bright  or  dun;  — 

Dawns  blush,  and  mid-days  burn,  'till 
scarce  aware 

Of  what  deep  meaning  haunts  our 
twilight  air. 

We  pause  bewildered,  yearning  for  the 
sun; 

Only  to  rind  in  that  strange  evening- 
tide. 

By  the  last  sunset  pathos  sanctified, 

Pale  memory  near  us,  and  divine  re- 
gret! 

Then  memory  gently  takes  us  by  the 

hand ; 
And   doubtful    boundaries    of    a    faded 

time, 
Half  veiled  in  mist  and  rime, 
Emerge,  grow  bright,  expand ; 
The  past  becomes  the  present  to  our 

eyes ; 
Poor  slaves  of  dust  and  death, 
(As    if    some    trump     of    resurrection 

clear 
Somewhere  outpealed,  our  senses  could 

not  hear) 
Rise,  freed  from  churchyard  taint  and 

mortal  stain ; 
Old   friends!   dear  comrades!    have  we 

met  again  '? 
God!  how  these  dismal  years 
Of    anguished    desolation,    and    veiled 

tears. 
Of    fettered     feeling,    and    despondent 

sighs, 
Wither   and   shrivel    like   a  parchment 

scroll 


316 


LATER    POEMS. 


Seized  by  the  fury  of  consuming  lire, 
Before    the    rapture    of    the   illumined 

soul. 
Lifted    and     lightened     by    our    love's 
desire ! 

Old    friends!   dear   comrades!    have  we 

met  once  more  ? 
Come!  let  us  fondly  mark 
In   this   weird    truce,    whose    moments 

soon  must  flee, 
'Twixt   tlie    charmed    heart   and    dread 

reality. 
Those  well-beloved  features  that  ye  wore 

Onee  on  this  earthly  shore, 
Now  rescued  from  the  void  and  treach- 
erous dark! 
O!  faces  soft  or  strong. 
Familiar  faces!  how  ye  press  and  throng 
Closely  about  us,  while  the  enchanted 

light 
Changes  to   noonday  our  long  spiritual 

night! 
The  faithful  eyes  that  beamed  in  ours  of 

yore, 
.Shine  on   us   in   their   ancient-   guileless 

way, 
Lndimmed.    unshorn  of  one  beneficent 

ray, 
And  vital  seeming  as  our  own.  to-day; 
»  Lips  smile,   as   once    they    smiled    with 

innocent  zest. 
When  round  the  social  board 
The  impetuous  flood-tide  poured 
Of  curbless   mirth,  and  keen  sparkling 

jest 
Vanished  like  wine-foam  on  its  golden 

crest ! 
We  feel  the  loyal  grasp 
Of   many  a  warm  hand,  yielding  clasp 

for  clasp ; 
But  may  not   stay,    alas!   we    may   not 

stay 
To  greet  ye  one  by  one. 
Comrades!  returned  from  realms  beyond 

the  sun; 
For  lo!  in  rightful  precedence  of  power, 
"A  Saul   amongst  his  brethren,"  than 

the  rest 


Loftier,  if  ruder  in  his  natural  might, 

The  man  who  toiled  through  fortune's 
bitterest  hour. 

As  calmly  steadfast  and  supremely 
brave, 

As  if  above  a  fair  life's  tranquil  wave. 

Brooded  the  halcyon  with  unruffled 
breast; 

The  man  whose  sturdy  frame  upheld 
aright, 

We  meet,  ((>  friends),  to  consecrate  to- 
night ! 

All  pregnant  powers  that  wait 

On  intellectual  state, 

Favored  and  loved  him;  earliest,  dear- 
est came 

Imagination,  robed  in  mystical  flame; 

Her  clear  eyes  searching  all  created 
things 

Heavenly  and  earthly;  with  vast  breadth 
of  wings 

Engirdled  by  the  magic  of  a  spell  ineffa- 
ble '; 

And  like  the  sportive  nymph  of  wood- 
land bowers, 

Fancy  stole  on  him  coyly,  pranked  with 
flowers. 

Whereof  the  fairest  her  white  fingers 
shed. 

To  crown  his  bended  head. 

Bluff  humor  true,  if  broad. 

Placed  in  his  hand  a  mirth-evoking  rod, 

While  satire,  from  the  heights  of  reason 
proud, 

Flashed  a  keen  gleam,  like  lightning  from 
a  cloud 

The  levin-bolt  so  sheerly  cuts  in  two. 

The  cloud  disparts,  to  leave  —  a  lumi- 
nous blue! 

All  that  he  was,  all  that  he  owned,  we 

know 
Was    lavished    freely     on    one     sacred 

shrine. 
The  shrine  of  home  and  country!    from 

the  first 
Fresh  blush  of  youth,  when  merged  in 

sanguine  glow, 


IN  ME. 

10  HI  AM.                                           317 

His  life-path  seemed  a  shadowless  steep 

Down  to  the  day.  a  few  sad  years  ago. 

to  shine. 

When   a   grave   veteran  with  his  age's 

Leading  forever  upward  to  the  stars; 

scars, 

Through  many  a  desperate  and  embit- 

He   moved    among    us,    like    a    Titan 

tered  strife 

maimed : 

That  raging,  rose  and  burst 

Only  one  glorious  goal. 

Above  the  storm-wracked  waste  of  mid- 

Through fate,  grief,  change,  the  pure  al- 

dle-life, 

legiance  claimed 

l'ale  memory  near  us. 


Of  Iris  unconquered  and  majestic  soul ; 
The  goal  of  honor;  not  that  he  might 

rise 
Alone  and  dominant;  but  that  all  men's 

eyes 
Might   view,  perchance    through    much 

brave  toil  of  his, 
His  country  stripped  of  every  filthy  weed 
Of  crime  imputed;  in  thought,  word  and 

deed, 
A  noble  people,  none  would  dare  despise 
In  their  unsullied  Palingenesis, 
(Which  he  with  blissful  awe, 


And  all  a  poet's  prescient  faitli  foresaw:) 
A  noble  people,  o'er  their  subject-lands 
Killing  with  constant  hearts  and  stain- 
less hands; 
Their  feet  firm  planted  as  McGregor's 

were. 
Deep  in  the  herbage  of  their  native  sod, 
And  every  honest  forehead  free  to  rear 

A  front  unquelled  by  fear, 
Untouched   by  shame,    unfurrowed    by 

despair,  — 
High  in  man's  sight,  or  bowed  alone  to 
God ! 


318 


LATER   POEMS. 


So,  let  us  rear  the  shaft,  and  poise  the 

The  loveliest  land  that  smiles  beneath 

bust 

the  sky, 

Above  the  mouldering,  but  ah!  priceless 

T/te  coast-land  of  our  Western  Italy; 

dust 

I  view  the  waters  quivering;  quaff  the 

Of  vanished  genius !    Let  our  homage  be 

breeze, 

Large  as  that  splendid  prodigality 

Whose  briny  raciness  keeps   an   under 

Of     force     and     love,     wherewith    he 

taste 

stanchly  wrought 

Of   flavorous   tropic   sweets    (perchance 

Out  from  the  quarries  of  his  own  deep 

swept  home, 

thought. 

Across  the  flickering  waste 

Unnumbered  shapes ;  whether  of  good  or 

Of  summer  waves,  capped  by  the  Ariel 

ill, 

foam), 

No    puny    puppets  whose  false  action 

From  Cuba's  perfumed  groves,  and  gar- 

frets 

den  spiceries! 

On   a  false   stage,  like  feeble  Marion- 

ettes ; 

Along  the  horizon-line  a  vapor  swims. 

But  life-like,  human  still; 

Pale  rose  and   amethyst,   melting   into 

Types  of  a   by-gone  age  of  crime  and 

gold ; 

lust; 

Up  to  our  feet  the  fawning  ripples  rolled. 

Or,  grand  historic  forms,  in  whom  we 

Glimmer    an    instant,    tremble,    lapse. 

view 

and  die; 

Ee-vivified,  and  re-created  stand. 

The  whole  rare  scene,  its  every  element 

The  braves  who  strove  through  cloud- 

Etherealized,  transmuted  subtly,  blent 

encompassed  ways, 

By  viewless  alchemy, 

Infinite  travail,  and  malign  dispraise, 

Into  the  glory  of  a  golden  mood, 

To  guard,  to  save,  to  wrench  from  tyrant 

Brings  potent  exaltations,  while  I  walk. 

hordes, 

(A  joyful  youth  again), 

By  the    pen's    virtue,   or    the    lordlier 

The  snow-white  beaches  by  the  Atlant'c 

sword's 

Main! 

Unravished  Liberty, 

Ah!    not  alone!    the    carking  curse   of 

The  virgin  huntress  on  a  virgin  strand ! 

Time 

Far  from  him  yet;  his  bold  hopes  unsub- 

I. through  whose  song  your  hearts  have 

dued 

spoken  to-night. 

By  the  long  anguish  of  the  woes  to  be, 

Soul-present  with  you,  yet  am  far  away; 

Midmost   his  years,   in   mellow-hearted 

Outside  my  exile's  home,  I  watch  the 

prime, 

sway 

Beside  me  stands  our  stalwart-statured 

Of  the  bowed  pine-tops  in  the  gloaming 

Shnms  ! 

gray. 
Casting  across  the  melancholy  lea, 

See!  what  a  Viking's  mien! 

A  tint  of  browner  blight; 

Half   tawny   locks    in    careless    masses 

Outside  my  exile's  home,  borne  to  and 

curled 

fro. 

Over  his  ample  forehead's  massive  dome ! 

I  hear  the  inarticulate  murmurs  flow 

Eyes  of  bold   outlook,   that    sometimes 

Of  the  faint  wind-tides  breathing  like  a 

beneath 

sea; 

Their  level-fronted   brows,    shine    lam- 

When, in  clear  vision,  softly  dawns  on 

bent,  deep. 

me. 

With  inspirations   scarce   aroused  from 

(As  if  in  contrast  with  yon  slow  decay). 

sleep ; 

IN  MEM  OBI  AM. 


310 


And  sometimes  rife  with  ire, 
Sent  forth  as  sword-blades  from  an  un- 
bared sheath, 
Flashes  of  sudden  fire ! 
His  whole  air  breathes  of  combat,  unse- 

rene 
Profounds  of  feeling,  by  a  scornful  world 
Too  early  stirred  to  impotent  disdains ; 
Generous  withal ;  bound  by  all  liberal  ties 
Of  lordly-nature. I  magnanimities; 

Whereof  we  mark  the  sign 
In    the    curved    fullness    of    a    mobile 

mouth, 
Almost    voluptuous;    hinting     of     the 

south, 
Whose  suns  high  summer  shed  through 

all  his  veins : 
Blending  the  mildness  of  a  cordial  grace 
With  sterner  traits  of  his  Berserker  face, 
Firm-set   as  granite,  haughty,   leo- 
nine. 

Xo  prim  Precisian  he !  his  fluent  talk 
Roved  thro'  all  topics,  vivifying  all ; 
Xow    deftly    ranging    level    plains    of 

thought, 
To  sink,  anon  in  metaphysical  deeps ; 
Whence,  by  caprice  of  strange  transition 

brought 
Outward  and  upward,  the  free  current 

sought 
Ideal  summits,  gathering  in  its  course, 
Splendid     momentum    and     imperious 

force, 
Till,  down  it  rushed  as  mighty  cataracts 

fall, 
Hurled  from  gaunt  mountain  steeps ! 

Sportive  he  could  be  as  a  gamesome  boy ! 

By  heaven!   as  'twere  but  yesterday,  I 
see 

His  tall  frame  quake  with  throes  of  jolli- 
ty; 

Hear  his  rich  voice  that  owned  a  jovial 
tone, 
Jocund  as  Falstaff's  own; 

And  catch  moist  glints  of  steel-blue  eyes 
o'errun 

Sideways,  by  tiny  rivulets  of  fun ! 


Alas !  this  vivid  vision  slowly  fades ! 
Its  serious  beauty,  and  its  flush  of  joy 
Pass   into   nothingness!     .     .     .     Stern 

Death  resumes 
His    sombre     empire    in    the    dusk    of 

tombs; 
And  the  deep  umbrage  of  the  cypress 

glades 
Is  wanly,  coldly  cast 
In  lengthening  gloom  o'er  the  reburied 

past ! 
What  then  '?  the  spirit  of  him 
We  mourn  and  fain  would  honor,  grows 

not  dim; 
On  earth  will   live  with   consummated 

toil 
Worthily  wrought,  despite  the  hot  tur- 
moil 
Of  open  enmity,  the  secret  guile, 
That    mole-like    burrowed    'neath    the 

fruitful  soil 
Of  his  broad  mental  acres,  but  to  show 
Marks  of  its  crawling  littleness  between, 

Each  far-extended  row 
Of  those  hale  harvests,  glittering  gold  or 

green ! 

And  somewhere,  somewhere  in  the  infi- 
nite space, 

Like  all  true  souls  by  our  Soul-Father 
prized, 

It  dwells  forever  individualized; 

Xo    ghost    bewildered    'midst    a    "No 
Man's  Land; " 
Outlawed  and  banned 

Of  fair  identity's  redeeming  grace. 

Shivering  before  its  wretched  phantom 
self, 

Marred  by  Lethean  moonshine  —  a  pale 
elf. 

A  passionless  shadow,  but  in  mind  ami 
heart. 

The  mortal  creature's  marvellous  coun- 
terpart ; 

Only  exalted,  nobler;  down  on  us 

Gazing    thro'    fathomless   ethers    lumi- 
nous ; 

Watching    the    earth    and    earth-ways 
from  afar. 


■6-20 


LATER   FOE  MS. 


Perhaps  with   somewhat  of   a  scornful 
smile; 

Yet  tempered  by  the  tolerance  which  be- 
seems 

One  long  translated  from  our  sphere  of 
dreams, 
Hollow  illusions,  vacant  vanities, 

To  that   vast  actual,  which   beyond  us 
lies, 

Where  who  may  guess?   midst  yonder 
opulent  skies; 

Clear    "coigns   of    vantage,"    in   some 
deathless  star! 

VI. 
DICKENS. 

Methinks  the  air 
Throbs  with  the  tolling  of  harmonious 
bells, 
Rung  by  the  hands  of  spirits;  every- 
where 
We  feel  the  presence  of  a  soft  despair 
And  thrill  to  voices  of  divine  farewells. 

Sweet  Fancy  lost, 
Wandering  in  darkness,  now  makes  sil- 
very moan; 
While  Pathos,  pale,  and  shadowy,  like 

a  ghost, 
Sobs     upon     Humor's     breast,     that 
mourns  him  most. 
The  wizard  king  who  leaves  them  all  — 
alone. 

Wan  genii  throng. 
From   earth's    four   quarters   hurrying, 
mount  anil  mart, 
Pure  woodland  peace,  the  city's  din 

and  wrong. 
Each  breathing  low  a   fond  funereal 
song, 
Each  sadly  bowed  o'er  that  grand,  silent 
heart. 

The  children's  tears 
Mingle  with  manhood's  woe,  that  falls 
like  rain  ; 
Low  lieth  one  who  towered  above  his 
peers, 


And  nevermore,  through  all  the  fruit- 
ful years, 
Our  eyes  shall   greet  the  master's  like 
again. 

Creations  hue. 
His  prodigal  offspring,  crowd  so  thickly 
round 
That  Wit  falls  foul  of  Sorrow,  Cupids 

twine 
Warm  arms  with  Avarice,  and  Love's 
strength  divine 
Hath  vanquished   Hate  on  Hate's  own 
chosen  ground. 

Though  gone,  his  art 
Triumphant  spans  the  threatening  clouds 
of  death; 
Its   rainbow    hues   forever   pulse   and 

start, 
Steeped  in  the  life-blood  of  the  human 
heart. 
And  woven  on  heavens  beyond  Time's 
stormy  breath. 

VII. 

TO   BAYAED   TAYLOR   BEYOND   US. 

V    VISION   (IF  CHRIST3IAS  EVE,   1878. 

As  here  within   i  watch  the  fervid  coals, 
While  the  chill  heavens  without  shine 
wanly  white, 
I  wonder,  friend!  in  what  rare  realm  of 
souls. 
You  hail  the  uprising  Christmas-tide 
to-night! 

I  leave  the   fire-place,  lift  the  curtain's 
fold. 
And  peering  past  these  shadowy  win- 
dow-bars, 
See  through  broad  rifts  of  ghostly  clouds 
unrolled. 
The    pulsing     pallor    of    phantasmal 
stars. 

Phantoms  they  seem,  glimpsed  through 
the  clouded  deep. 
Till   the  winds  cease,  and  cloudland's 
ghastly  glow 


IN  ME  MO  III  AM. 


321 


Gives  place  above  to  luminous  calms  of 
sleep, 
Beneath,  to  glittering   amplitudes  of 
snow ! 

Some  stars  like  steely  bosks  on  blazoned 
shields, 
Stud    constellations     measureless    in 
might; 
Some  lily-pale,   make   fair  the   ethereal 
fields, 
In  which,  O  friend,  art  thou  ensphered 
to-night  ? 

Where'er  mid  yonder  infinite  worlds  it  be. 
Its   souls,   I   know,   are   clothed   with 
wings  of  fire; 
How  wouldst  thou  scorn  even  Immor- 
tality, 
In  whose    dull  rest  thou  eouldst  not 
still  aspire! 

There,  Homer  raised  where  genius  can- 
not nod, 
Hears  the  orbed  thunders  of  celestial 
seas; 
And  Shakespeare,  lofty  almost  as  a  God, 
Smiles  his  large  smile  at  Aristophanes ; 

With     earth's     supremest     souls,    still 
grouped  apart. 
Great  souls  made  perfect  in  the  eternal 
noon. 
There  thy  loved  Goethe  holds  thee  to  his 
heart. 
Ke-born  to  youth  and  all  life's  chords 
in  tune. 

While   in   the   liberal  air   of  that  wide 
heaven. 
He  whispers :    ' '  Come !  we  share   the 
self-same  height: 
To  me  on  earth  thy    noblest  toils  were 
given, 
Brothers,   henceforth,  we  walk  these 
paths  of  light." 

Clear  and  more  clear  the  radiant  vision 
gleams! 
More  bright  grand  shapes  and  glorious 
faces  grow : 


While  like  deep  fugues  of  victory,  heard 
in  dreams. 
A  thousand  heavenly  clarions  seem  to 
blow! 

VIII. 
BAYARD   TAYI/II!    (TPOX  DEATH). 

"  More  than  mice  I  have  met  death,  hut 
without  fear!  Xor  do  I  fear  now !  Without 
being-  able  to  demonstrate  it.  I  know  that  my 
soul  cannot  <lic  .  .  Indeed,  to  me  the  infinite 
is  more  comprehensible  than  the  finite  ! '" 

These  words  occur  in  a  letter  of  Bayard 
Taylor's  to  me,  written  not  many  weeks  before 
his  death.  They  have  suggested  the  following 
sonnet  :  — 

"Oft  have  I   fronted  Heath,  nor  feared 

his  might ! 
To  me  immortal,  this  dim  Finite  seems 
Like   some  waste  low-land,    crossed  by 

wandering  streams 
Whose  clouded  waves  scarce  catch  our 

yearning  sight: 
Clearer  by  far.  the  imperial  Infinite  ! 
Though  its  ethereal  radiance  only  gleams 
In  exaltations  of  majestic  dreams. 
Such  dreams  portray  God's  heaven   of 

heavens  aright !  " 
Thou    blissful    Faith!    that    on    death's 

imminent  brink 
Thus  much  of  heaven's  mysterious  truth 

hast  told ! 
Soul-life    aspires,  though    all    the   stars 

should  sink; 
Not  vain  our  loftiest  instinct's  upward 

stress. 
Nor  hath  the  immortal  hope  shone  clear 

and  bold. 
To  quench  at   death,  his  torch   in  noth- 
ingness ! 

v    IX. 
RICHARD   II.    DAXA.    SEX. 
O    deep    grave    eyes!  that    long    have 
seemed  to  gaze 
On  our  low  level  from  far  loftier  days, 
O  grand  gray  head !  an  aureole  seemed  to 
gird, 
Drawn  from  the  spirit's  pure,  immacu- 
late rays! 


322 


LATER    ruEJLS. 


At  length  death's  signal  sounds!    From 
weary  eyes 
Pass  the  pale  phantoms  of  our  earth 
and  skies; 
The  gray  head  droops ;  the  museful  lips 
are  closed 
On  life's  vain  questionings  and  more 
vain  replies ! 

Like  some  gaunt  oak  wert  thou,    that 
lonely  stands 
'Mid  fallen  trunks  in  outworn  desert 
lands ; 
Still  sound  at  core,  with  rhythmic  leaves 
that  stir 
To  soft  swift  touches  of  aerial  hands. 

Ah !  long  we  viewed  thee  thus,  forlornly 
free, 
In  that  dead  grove  the  sole  unravished 
tree ; 
Lo!  the  dark  axe  man  smites!  the  oak 
lies  low 
That  towered  in  lonely  calm  o'er  land 
and  sea! 

x. 

BBYANT   DEAD! 

Lo!  there  he  lies,  our  Patriarch  Poet, 
dead ! 
The  solemn  angel  of  eternal  peace 
Has  waved  a  wand  of  mystery  o'er  his 
head. 
Touched  his  strong  heart,  and   hade 
his  pulses  cease. 

Behold  in  marble  quietude  he  lies ! 
Pallid  and  cold,  divorced  from  earthly 
breath. 
With    tranquil    brow,   lax    hands,    and 
dreamless  eyes. 
Yet  the  closed  lips  would  seem  to  smile 
at  death. 

Well  may  they  smile;  for  death,  to  such 
as  he. 
Brings  purer  freedom,  loftier  thought 
and  aim; 


And,  in  grand  truce  with  immortality, 
Lifts  to  song's  fadeless    heaven    his 
star-like  fame ! 

XI. 

THE    POLE    OF    DEATH. 

IX   MEMORY  OF   SIDXEV    LAXIEK. 

How  solemnly  on  mournful  eyes 

The  mystic  warning  rose, 
While  o'er  the  Singer's  forehead  lies 

A  twilight  of  repose. 

The  twilight  deepens  into  night,  — 
That  night  of  frozen  breath, 

The  rigor  of  whose  Arctic  blight, 
We  recognize  as  —  death ! 

But  since  beyond  the  polar  ice 
May  shine  bright  baths  of  balm ; 

Past  its  grim  barriers'  last  device, 
A  crystal-hearted  calm,  — 

Thus,  ice-bound   Death  that  guards  so 
Avell 

His  far-off,  secret  goal, 
May  clasp  a  peace  ineffable, 

For  some  who  reach  his  pole! 

My  poet  —  is  it  thus  with  thee, 
Beyond  this  twilight  gray,  — 

This  frozen  blight,  this  sombre  sea,  — 
Ah !  hast  thou  foimd  the  Day  ? 

XII. 

THE    DEATH    OF    HOOD.* 

The  maimed  and  broken  warrior  lay, 
By  his  last  foeman  brought  to  bay- 
No  sounds  of  battlefield  were  there  — 
The    drum's   deep   bass,   the   trumpet's 
blare. 

*  During  the  terrible  yellow  fever  season  of 
187S,  General  Hood  and  his  -wife  died  at  very 
nearly  the  same  time.  They  left  a  large 
family  of  children  unprovided  fdr,  under  cir- 
cumstances which  aroused  the  sympathy  of 
the  public,  north  and  south.  At  the  South,  a 
considerable  fund  was  subsequently  raised  for 
their  support;  while  northern  philanthropists, 
we  understand,  adopted  two  of  the  children. 


MEDITATIVE  AND   RELIGIOUS. 


323 


No  lines  of  swart  battalions  broke 
Infuriate,  thro'  the  sulphurous  smoke. 

But  silence  held  the  tainted  room 
An  ominous  hush,  an  awful  gloom, 

Save   when,    with    feverish    moan,    he 

stirred, 
And  dropped  some  faint,  half-muttered 

word, 

Or  outlined  in  vague,  shadowy  phrase, 
The  changeful  scenes  of  perished  days ! 

What  thoughts  on  his  bewildered  brain, 
Must  then  have  flashed  their  blinding- 
pain! 

The  past  and  future,  blent  in  one,  — 
Wild  chaos  round  life's  setting  sun. 

But  most  his  spirit's  yearning  gaze 
Was  fain  to  pierce  the  future's  haze, 

And  haply  view  what  fate  should  find 
The  tender  loves  he  left  behind. 

"O  God!  outworn,  despondent,  poor, 
I  tarry  at  death' s  opening  door, 

While  subtlest  ties  of  sacred  birth 
Still  bind  me  to  the  lives  of  earth. 

How  can  I  in  calm  courage  die, 
Thrilled  by  the  anguish  of  a  cry 

I  know  from  orphaned  lips  shall  start 
Above  a  father's  pulseless  heart  ?  " 

His  eyes,  by  lingering  languors  kissed, 
Shone  like  sad  stars  thro'  autumn  mist ; 

And  all  his  being  felt  the  stress 
Of  helpless  passion's  bitterness. 

When,  from  the  fever-haunted  room, 
The  prescient  hush,  the  dreary  gloom, 

A  blissful  hope  divinely  stole 
O'er  the  vexed  waters  of  his  soul, 

That  sank  as  sank  that  stormy  sea, 
Subdued  by  Christ  in  Galilee. 


It  whispered  low,  with  smiling  mouth, 
"  She  is  not  dead,  —  thy  queenly  South. 

And  since  for  her  each  liberal  vein 
Lavished  thy  life,  like  vintage  rain, 

When    round    the   bursting  wine-press 

meet 
The  Ionian  harvesters'  crimsoned  feet: 

And  since  for  her  no  galling  curb 
Could  bind  thy  patriot  will  superb. 

Yea!  since  for  her  thine  all  was  spent, 
Unmeasured,  with  a  grand  content,  — 

Soldier,  thine  orphaned  ones  shall  rest, 
Serene,  on  her  imperial  breast. 

Her  faithful  arms  shall  be  their  fold, 
In  summer's  heat,  in  winter's  cold; 

And  her  proud  beauty  melt  above 
Their  weakness  in  majestic  love!" 

Ah !  then  the  expiring  hero  s  face, 
Like  Stephen's,  glowed  with  rapturous 
grace. 

Mad  missiles  of  a  morbid  mood, 
Hurled  at  his  heart  in  solitude, 

Xo  longer  wounding,  round  it  fell ; 
Peace  sweetened  his  supreme  farewell ! 

For  sure  the  harmonious  hope  was  true, 
O  South!  he  leaned  his  faith  on  you! 

And  in  clear  vision,  ere  he  died, 
Saw  its  pure  promise  justified. 


MEDITATIVE   AND  RELIGIOUS. 

I. 

CHRIST  ON  EARTH. 

Had  we  but  lived  in  those  mysterious 

days. 
When,  a  veiled  God  'mid  unregenerate 

men, 
Christ  calmly  walked  our  devious  mortal 

ways, 


824 


LATER   POEMS. 


Crowned  with  grief's  bitter  rue  in  place 
of  bays,  — 
All!  had  we  lived  but  then: 

Lived  to  drink  in  with  every  wondering 
breath, 
A   consciousness   beyond    all    human 
ken, 
That  clothed  in  flesh,  as  long  conceived 

in  faith. 
We  viewed  the  Lord  of  life  and  Lord  of 
death,  — 
Ah !  bad  Ave  lived  but  then : 

To  mark   all  Nature  quickening  where 
He  trod, 
Whether  thro'  golden  field,  or  shadowy 
glen, 
While  a  strange  sweetness  breathed  from 

leaf  and  clod, 
As  thro'  man's  image  they  divined  their 
God ;  — 
Ah !  had  we  lived  but  then ! 

Wild  birds  above  him  passed  on  reverent 
wing, 
And  savage  sovereigns  of  dark  dune 
or  den, 
Out  stole  to  greet  Him  with  mild  mur- 
muring, 
Soft  as   a   nested    dove's    song   in   the 
spring  — 
Ah!  had  we  lived  but  then! 

At  "peace:   be  still!''   the   storm-wind 
ceased  to  roar, 
And  the  lulled  waters  seemed  to  sigh 
"  amen!  " 
Fear  —  the   soul's    mightier    tempest  — 

surged  no  more, 
But  a  strange  stillness  fell  on  sea  and 
shore ;  — 
Ah!  had  we  lived  but  then! 

With  our  own  ears  to  hear  the  words  He 

said, 
(Their  music  pondering  o'er  and  o'er 

again!) 
The  wine  of  wisdom  quaff  from  wisdom's 

head, 


View  the  lame  leap,  and  watch  the  up- 
rising dead: 
Ah!  had  we  lived  but  then! 

The  world   grows   old.      Faith,  once   a 
mountain  stream, 
Now  crawls  polluted  down  a  poisonous 
fen ; 
The  Bethlehem  star  hath  lost  its  morning 

beam ; 
Thy   face,    dear    Christ,    wanes    like   a. 
wasted  dream,  — 
How  changed,  how  cold  since  then. 

Ah!  'tis  our  sordid  lives  whose  promise 
fails : 
These   languorous  lives   of   low,  lost, 
aimless  men ; 
Thro'  mockery's  mist  our  Lord's  pure 

aureole  pales, 
Yet  tenderer  than  the  Syrian  nightin- 
gales, 
His  voice  sounds  now  as  then. 


HARVEST-HOME. 

O'er  all  the  fragrant  land  this  harvest 
day. 
What  bounteous  sheaves  are  garnered, 
ear  and  blade ! 
Whether  the  heavens  be  golden-glad,  or 
gray,  — 
And  the  swart  laborers  toil  in  sun  or 
shade : — 

Like  some  fair  mother  in  time's  morning 
beams, 
When  mortal  beauty  lured  immortal 
eyes, 
Here,    Earth    lies    smiling    in    ethereal 
dreams, 
While   her   deep-bosomed    breathings 
fall  and  rise! 

Through  half-closed  lids  she  views  o'er 
lawn  and  lea, 
Rich-fruited  trees,  vast  piles  of  glim- 
merins;  grain,  — 


=    mm 


MEDITATIVE   AND   RELIGIOUS. 


325 


And  from  the  mountain  boundaries  to 
the  sea, 
Hears  the  low  rumbling  of  the  loaded 
wain. 

A  magical  murmur  born  of  ocean-deeps, 
Blent  with   the  pine-tree's  lingering 
music  thrills 
Up  the  brown  pastures  to  the  trackless 
steeps, 
And    ancient    caverns   of    the  lonely 
hills. 

Far-flashing    insects    flicker    thro'    the 
grass ; 
The  humble-bee  with  burly  bass  drones 

by; 

Afar  the  plover  pipes;  the  curlews  pass 
In  long  lithe  lines  across  the  violet  sky : 

A    mellowed    radiance    rings    creation 
round ; 
Plenty  and  peace  the  auspicious  season 
bless ; 
The  full  year  pauses  proudly,  clothed 
and  crowned 
In  consummation  of  high  queenliness : 

All  nature  seems  to  throb  with  rhythmic 
fires ; 
Dawns  rise  harmonious ;  splendid  sun- 
sets roll 
Down  to  the  chorus  of  invisible  choirs — 
Strange  winds   in   tune  with  Earth's 
victorious  soul! — 

Thus,  on  the  verge  of  winter's  dreary 
rest, 
Nature     rejoices    in    rare    pomps    of 
power ; 
To  breeze  and  sunbeam  bares  her  prodi- 
gal breast, 
And  robes  in  purple  her  last  shadowless 
hour. 

Ah,  when  Life's  autumn  nears  the  eter- 
nal main, 
May  the  heart's  granary  its  rich  depths 
unfold,  — 


Brimmed  with   immaculate   sheaves  of 
heavenly  grain, 
And  flushed  with  fruitage  of  unfading 

eold ! 


RECONCILIATION. 

[From  the  South  to  the  Xorth.      TVritten  in 
view  of  the  new  year.] 

Land  of  the  North!  I  waft  to  thee 
The  South's  warm  benedicite! 
Thou  earnest  when  all  was  grief  and  pain, 
The  feverish  blood,  the  tortured  brain, 
"When  through  hot  veins  delirium  ran, 
Thou  cam' st,  the  true  Samaritan! 

The  charm  of  ruthful  grace  divine, 
The  golden  oil  and  perfumed  wine, 
Have  soothed  far  deeper  wounds  than 

those 
Which  harmed  the  body' s  hale  repose ; 
On  anguished  souls  dropped  purely  calm, 
And     sweet     as    Mary's    "spikenard" 

balm ! 

Lo!  now  o'er  all  the  world  are  drawn 
Clear  splendors  of  the  New-year's  dawn! 
O  North !  O  South !  let  warfare  cease ! 
Hark!    to   that  prince  whose  name  is 

peace ! 
And  ere  time's  new-born  child  departs, 
Be    joined    in    hands    and     joined    in 

hearts ! 

Once  wedded  thus,  O  North!  O  South! 
Should  discord  ope  her  Marah  mouth, 
Smite  the  foul  lips  so  basely  fain 
To  outpour  hate's  salt  tides  again: 
Long  raged  the  storm,  long  lowered  the 

night,  — 
O  faction,  fly  our  morning  light ! 


A  vernal  hymn. 
The  fresh  spring  burgeons  into  bloom — 
And  Earth  with  all  her  vernal  charms 
Lies  like  a  queenly  bride  enclasped 
Within    her    heavenly    bridegroom's 
arms ; 


326 


LATE  It   POEMS. 


The  storms  that  raved  have  sunk  to 
peace; 

Freed  rivulets  weave  a  blithesome  lay, 
And  blissful  Nature  softly  sings 

Preludings  of  her  perfect  day  ! 

Meanwhile  there's    not    a    breeze  that 
thrills 
Leaf,    bud,    and    flower    with    genial 
kiss,  — 
Which  does  not  breathe  thy  mystic  hope, 
<  )h.  soul  of  Palingenesis:  — 

Glance  where  we  may,  the  symbols  rise 
( )f  loftier  loves  and  lives  to  be :  — 

This  marvellous  spring-time    seems   to 
grasp 
Tl>e  skirts  of  immortality  .' 


CHRISTIAN   EXALTATION. 

O  Christian  soldier!  shouldst  thou  rue 
Life  and  its  toils,  as  others  do  — 
Wear  a  sad  frown  from  day  to  day, 
And  garb  thy  soul  in  hodden-gray  ? 
O  rather  shouldst  thou  smile  elate, 
Unquelled  by  sin.  unawed  by  hate, — 
Thy  lofty-statured  spirit  dress 
In  moods  of  royal  stateliness;  — 
For  say,  what  service  so  divine 
As  that,  ah!  warrior  heart,  of  thine. 
High  pledged  alike  through  gain  or  loss, 
To  thy  brave  banner  of  the  cross  ? 

Yea!  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  gloom. 
Whose    footsteps    spurn   the    conquered 

tomb  ? 
Thou  that   through    dreariest   dark  can 

see 
A  smiling  immortality  ? 

Leave  to  the  mournful  doubting  slave, 
Who  deems  the  whole  wan  earth  a  grave, 
Across  whose  dusky  mounds  forlorn 
Can  rise  no  resurrection  morn. 
The  sombre  mien,  the  funeral  weed, 
That  darkly  match  so  dark  a  creed ; 
But  be  thy  brow  turned  bright  on  all. 
Thy  voice  like  some  clear  clarion  call, 


Pealing  o'er  life's  tumultuous  van 
The  keynote  of  the  hopes  of  man, 
While   o'er  thee   flames   through  gain, 

through  loss,  — 
Thai  fadeless  symbol  of  the  cross. 


solitude;  ix  vorrn  and  age. 

In  youth  we  shrink  from  solitude ! 

Its  quiet  ways  we  slum, 
Because  our  hearts  are  fain  to  dance 

With  others'  in  the  sun;  — 
Life's  nectar  bubbling  brightly  up, 
O'erfloweth  toward  our  brother's  cup. 

In  age  we  shrink  from  solitude, 

Because  our  God  is  there ; 
And  something  in  his  "  still,  small  voice" 

Doth  bid  our  souls  "  beware!" 
Who  flies  from  God  and  conscience,  can 
But  seek  his  fellow-sinner  —  man ! 

VII. 
DENIAL. 

We  look  with  scorn  on  Peter's  thrice- 
told  lie: 

Boldly    we    say.    ''Good    brother!    you 
nor  I, 
So  near  the  sacred  Lord,  the  Christ, 
indeed. 

Had   dared    His    name   and    marvellous 
grace  deny." 

Oh,  futile  boast!     Ob,  haughty  lips,  be 

dumb! 
Unheralded    by    boisterous    trump    or 

drum. 
How  oft  'mid  silent  eves  and  midnight 

chimes, 
Vainly   to   us   our  pleading  Lord  hath 

come  — 

Knocked  at  our   hearts,  and  striven  to 

enter  there; 
But  we  poor  slaves  of  mortal  sin  and  care, 
Sunk    in    deep    sloth,    or    bound    by 

spiritual  sleep, 
Heard  not  the  voice  divine,  the  tender 

prayer ! 


MEDITATIVE   AND   RELIGIOUS. 


Ah!  well  for  us  if  some  late  spring-tide 

hour 
Faith  still  may  bring,  with  blended  shine 

and  shower; 
If  through  warm  tears  a  late  remorse 

may  shed, 
Our     wakened     souls     put     forth     one 

heavenly  flower! 

VIII. 
LESSON    OF    SUBMISSION. 

Bex  Youssif,  bound  to  Mecca,  day  by 

day 
Toiled    bravely   o'er   the    desert's   fiery 

way, 
Till  its  hot  sands  and  flint-sown  courses 

sore 
Pressed  on  the  broidered  sandals  which 

he  wore, 
Scorching  and  cutting !  at  the  last  they 

fell 
Loosely  abroad  ;  —  he   seemed    to    fare 

through  hell. 
So  blistering  now,  the  flame-hued  rocks 

and  dust :  — 
''  O  mighty  Allah!  "  cried  he,  "  art  thou 

just, 
To  let  thy  faithful  pilgrim,  serving  thee, 
Pass  onward,  thus,  in  nameless  agony?" 
With  bitter  thoughts  and  half-rebellious 

mind 
He    left,    at    length,   the   desert   sands 

behind. 
And    still    in    that    dark    temper  —  far 

from  grace  — 
Went    where    his    brethren    midst    the 

holy  place 
Kneeled,   by   the   Caaba's   sanctity  en- 
thralled;— 
Lo!  there  he  marked  a  smitten  wretch 

who  crawled 
Nearer  the   shrine,   on  bleeding  hands 

and  knees, 
Yet  his  deep  eyes  were  stars  of  prayer 

and  peace ;  — 
And  ah,  how  Youssuf's  heart  remorse- 
ful beat, 
To  find  he  lacked  not  only  shoes,  but  — 

feet ! 


THE    SUPREME    IIOTJE. 

There    comes  an   hour  when  all  life's 
joys  and  pains 
To  our  raised  vision  seem 
But    as    the    flickering    phantom    that 
remains 
Of  some  dead  midnight  dream ! 

There  comes  an  hour  when  earth  recedes 
so  far, 

Its  wasted  wavering  ray 
AVanes  to  the  ghostly  pallor  of  a  star 

Merged  in  the  milky  way. 

Set  on   the  sharp,    sheer  summit  that 
divides 
Immortal  truth  from  mortal  fantasie; 
We  bear  the  moaning  of  time's  muffled 
tides 
In  measureless  distance  die! 

Past    passions  —  loves,     ambitions    and 
despairs, 
Across  the  expiring  swell 
Send    thro'    void   space,    like   wafts  of 
Lethean  airs, 
Vague  voices  of  farewell. 

Ah,    then!     from     life's    long-haunted 
dream  we  part, 

Roused  as  a  child  new-born. 
We  feel  the  pulses  of  the  eternal  heart 

Throb  thro'  the  eternal  morn. 


A  CHRISTMAS   LYRIC. 

Tho'  the  Earth  with  age  seems  whitened, 

And  her  tresses  hoary  and  old 
No  longer  are  flushed  and  brightened 

By  glintings  of  brown  or  gold, 
A  voice  from  the  Syrian  highlands, 

O'er  waters  that  flash  and  stir, 
By  the  belts  of  their  tropic  islands, 

Still  singeth  of  joy  to  her! 

A  song  which  the  centuries  hallow! 

Though  softer  than  April  rain 
That  soweth  on  field  and  fallow, 

A  spell  that  shall  rise  in  grain  — 


328 


LATER   POEMS. 


Yet  deep  as  the  sea-strain  chanted 

On  the  fluctuant  ocean-lyre, 
By  the  magical  west-wind  haunted, 

With  the  pulse  of  his  soul  on  fire! 

A  promise  to  lift  the  lowly,  — 

To  weed  the  soul  of  its  tares. 
And  change  into  harmonies  holy 

The  discord  of  fierce  despairs : 
A  glory  of  high  Evangels, 

Of  rhythmical  storms  and  calms; 
All  hail  to  the  voices  of  angels, 

Heard  over  the  starlit  palms ! 

A  hymn  of  hope  to  the  ages, 

The  music  of  deathless  trust. 
Xo  frenzy  of  mortal  rages 

Can  darken  with  doubt  or  dust; 
A  rapture  of  high  evangels, 

But  centred  in  sacred  calms ! 
Ah !  still  the  chorus  of  angels 

Thrills  over  the  Bethlehem  palms ! 

Still  heralds  the  day-spring  tender, 

That  never  can  melt  or  close, 
Till  the  noon  of  its  deepening  splendor 

Out-blooms,  like  a  mystic  rose, 
Whose  petals  are  rays  supernal 

Of  love  that  hath  all  sufficed.  — 
And  whose  heart  is  the  grace  eternal, 

Of  the  fathomless  peace  of  Christ ! 

XI. 
THE   PILGIUM. 

Through  deepening   dust   and    dreary 

dearth 
I  walk  the  darkened  wastes  of  earth. 
A  weary  pilgrim  sore  beset, 
By  hopeless  griefs  and  stern  regret. 

With  broken  staff  and  tattered  shoon 
T  wander  slow  from  dawn  to  noon  — 
From  arid  noon  till  dew-impearled. 
Pale  twilight  steals  across  the  world. 

Yet    sometimes    through    dim    evening 

calms 
I  catch  the  gleam  of  distant  palms : 
And  hear,  far  off,  a  mystic  sea 
Divine  as  waves  on  Galilee. 


Perchance     through     paths     unknown. 

forlorn, 
I  still  may  reach  an  orient  morn; 
To  rest  when  Easter  breezes  stir. 
Around  the  sacred  sepulchre. 

XII. 
PEXUEL. 

Xeae  Jabbok  Ford,  endued  with  sacred 

might. 

The  patriarch  strove  with  one  that  silent 
came. 

Obscurely  limned  against  the  twilight 
flame  — 

Strove  thro'  slow  watches  of  the  marvel- 
lous night ! 

'"  Ungird  thine  arms,  for  lo!  'tis  morning 
light," 

Spake  the  weird  stranger! — "nay,  but 

grant  the  claim, 
Made  good  thro'  strife  divine,  and  bless 

my  name, 
"Ere  yet  thou  goest  from  doubtful  clasp 

and  sight! "' 

Thus  Jacob,  in  the  slowly  ebbing  swell 
Of  power  and  passion, — yearning  still 

to  mark 
That  wrestler's  face  between  the  dawn 

and  dark : 

Again,  "wilt  thou  not  bless  me  ?''  .  .  . 

yea!  and  yea! " 
Dropped  a   still   voice,   what   time   the 

new-born  day 
blaloed  an  angel's  head  at  Penuel! 

xm. 

PATIEXCE. 

She  hath  no  beauty  in  her  face, 
Unless  the  chastened  sweetness  there 

And  meek  long-suffering  yield  a  grace 
To  make  her  mournful  features  fair. 

Shunned   by   the    gay,   the  proud,   the 
young. 
She  roams  through  dim   unsheltered 
ways : 


MEDITATIVE   AND   RELIGIOUS. 


329 


Nor  lover's  vow,  nor  flatterer's  tongue, 
Brings  music  to  her  sober  clays. 

At  best,  her  skies  are  clouded  o'er, 
And  oft  she  fronts  the  stinging  sleet, 

Or  feels  on  some  tempestuous  shore 
The  storm- waves  lash  her  naked  feet ! 

"Where'er  she  strays,  or  musing  stands 
By    lonesome     beach,    by     turbulent 
mart,  — 

We  see  her  pale,  half-tremulous  hands 
Crossed  humbly  o'er  her  aching  heart. 

Within,  a  secret  pain  she  bears, 
A  pain  too  deep  to  feel  the  balm 

An  April  spirit  finds  in  tears,  — 
Alas!  all  cureless  griefs  are  calm! 

Yet  in  her  passionless  strength  supreme, 
Despair  beyond  her  pathway  flies, 

Awed  by  the  softly  steadfast  beam 
Of  sad,  but  heaven-enamored  eyes ! 

Who  pause  to  greet  her,  vaguely  seem 
Touched  by  fine  wafts  of  holier  air, 

As  those  who  in  some  mystic  dream 
Talk  with  the  angels  unaware! 

XIV. 
THE   LATTER   PEACE. 

We  have  passed  the  noonday  summit, 
We  have  left  the  noonday  heat, 

And  down  the  hillside  slowly 
Descend  our  weary  feet. 

Yet  the  evening  airs  are  balmy, 
And  the  evening  shadows  sweet. 

Our  summer's  latest  roses 

Lay  withered  long  ago ; 
And  even  the  flowers  of  autumn 

Scarce  keep  their  mellowed  glow. 
Yet  a  peaceful  season  woos  us 

Ere  the  time  of  storms  and  snow. 

Like  the  tender  twilight  weather 
When  the  toil  of  day  is  done, 

And  we  feel  the  bliss  of  quiet 
Our  constant  hearts  have  won  — 

When  the  vesper  planet  blushes, 
Kissed  by  the  dying  sun. 


So  falls  that  tranquil  season, 

Dew-like,  on  soul  and  sight, 
Faith's  silvery  star  rise  blended 

With  memory's  sunset  light, 
Wherein  life  pauses  softly 

Along  the  verge  of  night. 

xv. 

GAUTAMA. 

Sevex  weary  centuries  ere  our  star-like 
Christ 
Bose  on  the  clouded  heavens  of  mortal 

faith 
Gautama  came,  the  stern  high  priest 
of  death, 
Oblivion's  sombre,  dark  evangelist. 
Millions  of  souls  hath  this  dread  creed 
enticed 
To  wander  lost  through  realms  of  bale- 
ful breath, 
Ghoul-haunted,  rife  with  shapes  of  sin 
and  scath, 
Monstrous,  yet   dim,  as  births  of  mid- 
night mist: 

All  life,  he  taught,  hath  been,  all  life 

must  be 
Accursed !    the  gift  of  demons !    All 

delight 
Lies  at  the  far-off  goal  of  pulseless  peace. 


Note.  —We  yield  to  none  in  our  cordial 
admiration  of  Mr.  Edwin  Arnold's  "  Light 
of  Asia  ;  "  but  we  regard  that  most  eloquent, 
pathetic,  and  beautiful  poem,  chiefly  as  a 
poem  —  and  by  no  means  as  an  absolutely 
authoritative  presentation  of  Gautama's  creed, 
or  its  tendencies.  It  even  seems  to  us  that 
Mr.  Arnold  is  himself  somewhat  in  the  dark  as 
to  these  matters.  The  "  prodigious  contro- 
versy among  the  erudite  in  regard  to  Gautama's 
doctrines,"  Mr.  Arnold  confronts  chiefly  by  his 
own  firm  conviction  that  "a  third  of  mankind 
would  never  have  been  brought  to  believe  in 
blank  abstractions,  or  in  nothingness,  as  the 
crown  of  Being!"  Au  contraire,  we  cannot 
fairly  ignore  the  opinion  of  those  Orientalists 
who  maintain,  that  "Nirvana"  is  essentially 
nothingness ;  and  moreover,  that  the  idea 
involved  in  it  has  a  peculiar  charm  for  the 
Hindoo  mind. 


330 


LATER   POEMS. 


"Pray,"  sighed  he,  "  that  this  breath  of 

men  shall  eease; 
Our  hell  is  earth,  our  heaven  eternal 

night; 
Our  only  godhead  vague  Nonentity!" 

XVI. 
CHEIST. 

The  soul's  physician  thus  the  soul  would 
kill, 
The    soul's    high    priest   its   heaven- 
bound  pinions  stay, 
Bring  from  fresh  beauty  chaos,  night 
from  day, 
Despair  from  trust,  from  all  good  prom- 
ise ill; 
The  outworn  heart  and  sickened  senses 
still 
Must  shroud  heaven's  life  in  fogs  of 

foul  decay, 
Veil  the  swift  angel,  love,  and  hide  the 
ray 
Born  of  God's  smile  with  masks  of  mor- 
bid will:  — 

But   Truth,   and   Truth's  great  Master 

cannot  die; 

While  Love,  the  seraph,  free  of  wings 

and  eyes, 

Upsweeps  the  realm  of  calm  immensity. 

A  thousand  times  our  buried   Christ 

shall  rise 
In    prayerful     souls    to     hush    their 
anguished  sighs, 
And  dawn,  not  darkness,  rule  o'er  earth 
and  sky. 

XVII. 
A  WIXTEK  HYMN. 

O  "we aey  winds !     O  winds  that  wail ! 

O'er  desert  fields  and  ice-locked  rills! 
O  heavens  that  brood  so  cold  and  pale 

Above  the  frozen  Norland  hills! 

Nature  is  like  some  sorrowing  soul, 
Kobed  in  a  garb  of  dreariest  woe ;  — 

She  cannot  see  her  vernal  goal 

Through  ghostly  veils    of    mist   and 
snow :  — 


Her   pulse  beats  low;   through  all  her 
veins 
Scarce    can     the    sluggish    life-blood 
start ; 
What  feeble,  faltering  heat  sustains 
The  half-numbed  forces  of  her  heart! 

Above,  despondent  eyes  she  lifts. 
To  view  the  sun-ray's  dubious  birth; 

Beneath  she  marks  the  storm-piled  drifts 
About  a  waste  bewildering  earth! 

Ah,  stricken  Mother!  hast  thou  lost 
All  memory  of  the  germs  that  rest 

Untouched  by  tempest,  rain,  or  frost. 
Shrined  in  thine  own  immortal  breast '? 

Bend,  bend  thine  ear;    yea,   bend   and 
hear,  — 
Despite    the   winds'    and   woodlands' 
strife,  — 
Deep  in  Earth's  bosom,  faint  and  clear, 
The  far-off  murmurous  hints  of  life: — 

The  sound  of  waves  in  whispering  flow; 

Of  seeds  that  stir  in  dreams  of  light, 
Whose  sweetness  mocks   the  shrouded 
snow. 
Whose  radiance  smiles  at  death  and 
night; 

So,  Christian  spirit !  wrapt  in  grief,  — 
Beneath  thy  misery's  frozen  sod, 

Love  works,  to  burst  in  flower  and  leaf. 
On  some  fair  spring-dawn  fresh  from 
God! 

XVIII. 
THE   THREE   URNS. 

List  to  an  Arab  parable,  wherein 
The  beauty  of  the  Orient  fancy  shrines 
A  star-like  truth,  the  iconoclastic  West 
Is  blind  to  see,  its  shrewd  material  vision 
Bent  over  on  the  foulest  soils  of  earth. 
If  only  gold  may  gild  them !  Hear  and 
learn ! 

Nimroud,  the  king  to  whom  his  four- 
score years 

Had  brought  a  wisdom  pure  as  his  white 
locks. 


MEDITATIVE   AND   RELIGIOUS. 


331 


(And  spotless  they  as  snow  on  Caucasus !) 

Dead  centuries  since,  rose  from  its  shat- 

One morn  commanded  his  three  sons  to 

tered  bulk 

grace 

Pungent,  and   yet  so  light  the  feeblest 

His  presence  chamber;  there  in  front  of 

puff 

each 

Of  failing  wind  hath  shorn  and  scattered 

A  mighty  urn,  sealed  with  a  mystic  seal, 

them 

Was   duly   set  —  the   one  of    burnished 

Into  vague  air.      One  vase    alone    re- 

gold, 

mained, 

Blazed  like  an  August  noon  —  of  amber 

Which  the  third  son  unsealing,  found 

fair 

therein, 

The   other  —  but   the   third    (dull  as   a 

Deep-graven,    glittering    like    a    planet 

cloud 

keen, 

Seen  'gainst  the  bright  flash  of  a  distant 

Thro'  gulfs  of  envious  darkness  the  sole 

wave. 

name 

Or     'twixt     the     glittering     tree-tops), 

Of  God,  —  "  which  name,  0!  princes,'' 

seemed,  in  form, 

said  the  king, 

A  rugged  mould  wrought  from  the  com- 

''  Doth   sanctify  yon  vase  of  common 

mon  earth. 

earth 

Above    all    precious   metals  sought    of 

"  Choose    thou,   my   eldest,"    said    the 

men, 

king,  deep-breathed, 

Since    but    one    letter    of    that    sacred 

"  Choose  thou  amongst  these  urns,  the 

three, 

urn  which  seems 

Outweighs  all  worlds,  from  the  mild  star 

To  thee  most  precious,"  —  whereupon  he 

of  eve, 

chose 

Shining   on  love,   to  those   mysterious 

The  Vase  of  Gold,  which  bore  in  jewelled 

orbs, 

flame, 

Which  gird  the  pathway  of  the  Pleiades." 

Clear  leaping,  the  word  "Empire,"  — 

opened  it. 

XIX. 

And  found  beneath  a  deadly,  vaporous 
fume, 

OX   THE    DECLIXE    OF   FAITH. 

(Which  on  the   instant  sickened  heart 

As  in  some  half-burned  forest,  one  by 

and  sense),  — 

one, 

Nought  but    a    bubbling  tide   of    vital 

We   catch  far    echoes    on    the   doleful 

blood, 

breeze, 

Hot,  as  appeared,  that  moment  from  the 

Born    of    the    downfall    of    its    ruined 

veins 

trees; 

Of  murdered  manhood.     The  fair  amber 

While  even  thro'   those   which    stand, 

vase, 

slow  shudderings  run, 

With  "Glory"  written  on  it  —  "this 

As   if    Fate's    ruthless  hand  were  laid 

for  me ! ' ' 

thereon ; 

Exclaimed  the  second  prince,  with  eager 

So,  in  a  world  sore-smitten  by  foul  dis- 

eyes, 

ease, 

And  feverish  hands  clasping  his  treasure 

—  That  Pest,  called  Doubt  —  we  mark  by 

close, — 

slow  degrees. 

Too  close,  alas!  for  as  he  spake,  the  urn 

The  fall  of  many  a  faith  that  wooed  the 

Crashed  on  his  breast,  and  bruised  and 

sun: 

tortured  it, 

Some,  with  low  sigh  of  parting  bough, 

And  a  rare  dust,  the  ashes  of  great  men, 

or  leaf, 

332 


LATER   POEMS. 


Strain,  quivering  downward  to  the  ab- 
horred ground ; 

Some  totter  feebly,  groaning  toward  their 
doom; 

While  some  broad-centuried  growths  of 
old  Belief, 

Sapped  as  by  fire,  defeatured,  charred, 
discrowned, 

Fall  with  a  loud  crash,  and  long  reverber- 
ant boom ! 

Thus,  fated  hour  by  hour,  more  gaunt 

and  bare, 
Gloom  the  wan  spaces,  whence,  a  power 

to  bless, 
Up  burgeoned  once,  in  grace  or  stateli- 

ness, 
Some  creed  divine,  offspring  of  light  and 

air; 
What  then  ?  and  must  we  yield  to  blank 

despair, 
Beholding  God  Himself  wax   less   and 

less, 
Paled    in    the    skeptical    storm-cloud's 

whirl  and  stress, 
Till  all  is  lost  —  love,  reverence,  hope, 

and  prayer. 
O  man!     when    faith    succumbs,    and 

reason  reels, 
Before  some  impious,  bold  iconoclast, 
Turn  to  thy  heart  that  reasons  not,  but 

feels  ; 
Creeds  change !  shrines  perish !  still  (her 

instinct  saith), 
Still  the  soul  lives,  the  soul  must  conquer 

Death. 
Holdfast  to  God,  and  God  luillhold  thee 

fast ! 


THE    ULTIMATE    TRUST. 

Though  in  the  wine-press  of  thy  wrath 
divine, 
My  crushed  hopes  droop,  like  crude 
and  worthless  must, 
That  love  and  mercy,  Father!   still  are 
thine, 
With  reverent  soul,  I  trust ! 


Though  all  my  life  be  shattered  by  thine 
ire, 
The    mystic    whirlwind    of    thy  will 
august, 
Still,  from  the  din,  the  darkness  and  the 
fire, 
I  lift  my  song  of  trust ! 

Tho'  foes  assail  me!  yea,  within,  with- 
out! 
Harrow  my  heart,  and  burl  its  joys  in 
dust, 
No  forceful  fear,  nor  fraud  of  treacherous 
doubt, 
Disarms  my  bucklered  trust! 

Though  my  lost  years  be  wrapped  in 
Arctic  cloud, 
And  Grief  on  me  hath  wreaked  her 
ruthless  lust, 
Still,  like  an  angel's  face  above  a  shroud 
Smiles  my  celestial  trust ! 

Tho',  Lord !  thou  wear'st  a  mask  of  hate 
('twould  seem), 
And  for  a  time,  I  think  —  as  mortals 
must  — 
That  mask  shall  melt,  as  melts  a  night- 
mare dream, 
Before  my  Orient  trust! 

Yea!  tho'  Thou  slay  me,  and  supine,  I 
cower, 
Heart-pierced  and  bleeding  from  the 
fiery  thrust,  — 
I  know  there  bides  in  heaven  a  glorious 
hour, 
To  crown  my  sacred  trust ! 


"  A   LITTLE    WHILE    I   FAIN   WTOULD 
LINGER   YET." 

A  little  while  (my  life  is  almost  set!) 
I  fain  would  pause  along  the  downward 

way, 
Musing  an  hour  in  this  sad  sunset- 
ray, 
While,  Sweet !  our  eyes  with  tender  tears 
are  wet; 
A  little  hour  I  fain  would  linger  yet. 


MEDITATIVE   AND   RELIGIOUS. 


333 


A    little    while     I    fain    would    linger 

XXII. 

yet, 

TWILIGHT  MONOLOGUE. 

All  for  love's  sake,  for  love  that  cannot 

Can  it  be  that  the  glory  of  manhood  has 

tire ; 

passed. 

Though  fervid  youth   be  dead,  with 

That    its    purpose,    its    passion,    its 

youth's  desire, 

might, 

And    hope    has   faded   to   a   vague   re- 

Have all  paled  with  the  fervor  that  fed 

gret, 

them  at  last, 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet. 

As  the  twilight  comes  down  with  the 

night  ? 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here: 

Behold!    who    knows   wdiat    strange, 

Can  it  be  I  have  lived,   dreamed,  and 

mysterious  bars 

labored  in  vain  — 

'Twixt   souls  that  love,   may  rise  in 

That    above    me,    unconquered    and 

other  stars  ? 

bright, 

Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is 

The  proud  goal  I  had  aimed  at  is  taunt- 

fair; 

ing  my  pain, 

A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 

As  the  twilight  comes  down  with  the 

night? 

A    little    while    I    yearn   to   hold   thee 

fast, 

Can  it  be  that  my  hopes,  which  seemed 

Hand  locked  in  hand,  and  loyal  heart 

noble  and  fair, 

to  heart ; 

"Were     predestined     to     mildew    and 

(0  pitying  Christ !  those  woeful  words. 

blight  ? 

"  We  part!") 

Ah !   sad  disenchantment !  that  bids  me 

So  ere  the  darkness  fall,  the   light  be 

beware 

past. 

Of  a  twilight  which  heralds  the  night ! 

A  little  while  I  fain  would   hold  thee 

fast, 

The  glad  days,  the  brave  years  that  were 

lusty  and  long  — 

A  little  while,  when  night  and  twilight 

How   they  fade  on   vague   memory's 

meet; 

sight ! 

Behind,  our  broken  years;  before,  the 

And  their  joys  are  like  echoes  of  jubi- 

deep 

lant  song, 

Weird  wonder  of  the  last  unfathomed 

As  the  twilight  comes  down  with  the 

sleep. 

night ! 

A  little  while  I  still  would  clasp  thee, 

Sweet; 

All  the  past  is  o'ershadowed,  the  present 

A  little  while,  wdien  night  and  twilight 

is  dim, 

meet. 

And   could   earth's  fairest  future  re- 

quite 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here; 

The  worn  spirit  that  swoons,  the  racked 

Behold !  who  knows  what  soul-divid- 

senses that  swim, 

ing  bars 

In  this  dread  of  the  twilight  and  night  ? 

Earth's  faithful    loves    may    part   in 

other  stars  ? 

There  is  dew  on  my  raiment;   the  sea 

Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is 

winds  wail  low. 

fair  : 

As    lost    birds,  wafted  wave-ward   in 

A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 

flight. 

334 


LATER   POEMS. 


And  all  Nature  grows  cold,  as  my  heart 

Or  bright  with  summer,  or  hale  winter's 

in  its  woe, 

crown 

At  the  advent  of  twilight  and  night! 

Press  on  her  brows  in  sleep ; 

So  nigh  the  dawn  of  some  new,  marvel- 

From the  realm  of   dead  sunset  scarce 

lous  birth, 

darkened  as  yet  — 

I'd  look  to  heaven,  still  clasped  in  arms 

Over  hills  mist-enshrouded  and  white, 

of  earth! 

A  deep  sigh  of  ineffable,  mournful  regret, 

Seems  exhaled  'twixt  the  twilight  and 

I  pray  you,  when  the  shadow  of  death 

night! 

draws  near, 

Give,  give  me  freedom  for  my  last,  faint 

O!    thou   genius    of   art!    I    have   wor- 

breath; 

shipped  and  blessed; 

Beneath  God's   liberal   heaven   I   could 

0!  thou  soul  of  all  beauty  and  light! 

not  fear. 

Lift    me   up   in    thine    arms,   give    me 

His  merciful  winds  would  dry  my  latest 

warmth  from  thy  breast, 

tear. 

Ere    the   twilight    be  merged    in   the 

His  sunshine  soften  death, 

night! 

And  some  fair  shreds  of  our  dear  earth's 

delight 
Cling   round    the  spirit  in  her  upward 

Let  me  draw  from  thy  bosom  miraculous 

breath. 

flight, 

And   for   once,  on  song's   uppermost 

height, 

XXIV. 

I  may  chant  to  the  nations  such  music 

FINIS. 

in  death 

As   shall    mock  at  the   twilight   and 

A  moment's  gleam,   a  hint  of  sunnier 

night! 

weather. 

Borne  from  the  storm-clouds  and  the 

XXIII. 

mists  of  fate; 

Dawned,  with  a  tender  "  Perad venture" 

THE    SHADOW   OF    DEATH. 

hither. 

I  pray  you,  when  the  shadow  of  death 

A  soft  ' '  Perchance  it  is  not  yet  too 

draws  nigh. 

late!" 

To  bear  me  out  beneath  the  unmeasured 

heaven ; 

And  so  a  transient  omen  magnifying. 

I  fain  would  hear  the  pine-trees'  slum- 

My soul  would   fain  pass  brightened, 

berous  sigh, 

unto  thine: 

And   watch   the   cloud    flotillas   drifted 

But  to  my  half-formed   thought  conies 

high, 

truth  replying: 

By  slow,  soft  breezes  driven 

"No  life  mounts   backward  from  its 

Due  south,  perchance  toward  realms  of 

wan  decline."                v 

tropic  balms, 

And  the  warm  fragrance  of  the  Syrian 

Would' st    thou    expect,    drear    winter, 

palms. 

ashen,  sober. 

To  burn  with  blushes  of  a  spring-tide 

I  pray  you,  when  the  shadow  of  death 

noon  ? 

comes  down. 

Would' st  thou  expect  the  hectic-cheeked 

Oh !  lay  me  close  to  nature's  pulses  deep, 

October 

Whether  her  breast  with  autumn  tints 

To    catch    the   virginal    freshness   of 

be  brown, 

young  June  ? 

MEDITATIVE  AND   RELIGIOUS. 


335 


All  mortal  lives  like  the  year's  seasons 

And  then  death  looms,  that  pitiless  grim 

ever 

December. 

Pass  from  their  May  dawn  and  rare 

Bringing  cold  tears,  a  winding  sheet 

summers  bloom, 

like  snow, 

Down  to  the  day  when  autumn  winds 

Last,  a   carved   stone,   which  bids  the 

dissever 

world  remember 

Life's  latest  sheaves  to   strew   them 

One  of  its  countless  myriads  sleeps  be- 

near a  tomb. 

low. 

"  My  thoughts  are  wandering  on  the  verge  of  dreams,  .  . 
While  lower,  feebler,  flit  the  fireside  gleams." 

XXV. 
THE    SHADOWS    ON   THE    WALL. 


What  mournful  influence  chills  my  soul 
to-night  ? 
I  watch  the  expiring  flames  that  fade 
and  fall, 
From  which   outleap    vague    shafts    of 
arrowy  light, 
Pursued  by  spectral  shadows  on  the 
wall. 


My  thoughts  are  wandering  on  the  verge 
of  dreams, 
Mist-laden,    gray,    and    sombre   as    a 
pall, 
While  lower,    feebler,    flit    the   fireside 
gleams, 
And  darker  those  quaint  shadows  on 
the  wall. 


336 


LATER   POEMS. 


The  old  sad  voice  (fraught  with  the  cen- 
turies' tears) 
That  seems  through  infinite  space  and 
time  to  call. 
Faint  -with  the  doubts  and  grief  of  an- 
tique years, 
Years  that  are  dim  as  shadows  on  the 
Avail; 

The   old  sad  voice   is  whispering  to  my 
heart  : 
Man's  life,  phantasmal,  vain,  illusive 
all. 
Beholds  too  soon  its  cloud-foundations 
part. 
Melting  like  midnight  shadows  on  the 
wall. 

Too  soon  the  noblest  passions,  worn  and 
old. 
Die.  or  grow  didled  and  languid  past 
recall : 
Even  love  may  wane  in  memory's  twi- 
light cold. 
Sad,  wavering,  wan.  as  shadows  on  the 
wall. 

And  oft  the  loftiest  nature's  loftiest  aim. 
Heaven-soaring    once,    wide    as  this 
earthly  ball. 
Sinks,  a  tamed  eagle  o'er  whose  eyes  of 
flame 
The  death-films  steal  like  shadows  on 
the  Avail. 

A  subtler  voice  whispers  the  conscious 
soul, 
"What  of  high  hopes  which  held  thy 
youth  in  thrall  ? 
Where  flash  thy  chariot  wheels,  where 
shines  thy  goal  ?  " 
The  mocking  shadows    answer   from 
the  Avail. 

With   deepening  dusk  and  faded  flame 
they  grow 
Fantastic  phantoms,  hovering  OA'er  all 
The  tremulous    space,  or  flickering   to 
and  fro 
In  wild  unearthly  antics  on  the  wall. 


Till    as  the   last  slow  ember  drops  in 
gloom, 
Like  vassals  hurrying   through   some 
Avizard's  hall, 
Whirling  they  pass,  and  darkness  haunts 
the  room, 
jSTo  life,   not    even  a  shadow  on  the 
wall ! 


COXSrMMATCM   EST. 

I've  done  with  all  the  world  can  give, 

Whate'er  its  kind  or  measure. 
(O  Christ!  what  paltry  lives  Ave  live 

If  toil  be  lord,  or  pleasure!). 
Alas !  I  only  yearn  for  sleep, 

Calm  rest  for  fevered  riot  — 
The  sacred  sleep,  the  shadoAvs  deep, 

Of  death's  majestic  quiet. 

I've  done  with  all  our  earth-life  lends  — 

False  hopes  and  wild  ambitions, 
Brilliant  beginnings,  futile  ends, 

And  long-postponed  fruitions, 
Those  hollow  shows  dissembling  truth, 

Vain  myths  that  mock  the  real, 
The  dreary  Avrecks  of  peace  and  youth 

Above  a  crushed  ideal. 

I've   done   with   heavenly   dreams   that 
Avane 

At  touch  of  earth-born  daAvnings, 
With  fervid  passion,  useless  pain, 

Brave  aims  and  dim  forewarnings ; 
I've  done  with  alien  tears  or  smiles, 

Past  days  and  vague  to-morrows ; 
I've    done     with     earth's     unhallowed 
wiles. 

Brief  joys  and  helpless  sorrows. 

I've  done  with  compacts  sealed  hi  dust, 

Dull  cares  that  OA'erweighed  me. 
With  promise  of  the  Judas-trust, 

That,  Avhile  it  kissed,  betrayed  me; 
With   all    save   love,   whose    matchless 
face 

Midmost  a  life's  undoing 
Smiles  in  its  tender  angel's  grace 

To  sanctify  the  ruin. 


MEDITATIVE  AND  RELIGIOUS. 


337 


I've  done  with  all  beneath  the  stars, 

O  world!  so  wanly  fleeting! 
How  long  against  time's  ruthless  bars 

Have  the  soul's  wings  been  beating, 
Till  even  the  soul  but  yearns  for  sleep, 

Calm  rest  for  fevered  riot  — 
The  sacred  sleep,  the  shadows  deep, 

Of  death's  majestic  quiet! 

XXVII. 
THE  BKOKEX  CHORDS. 

Like  a  worn  wind-harp  on  a  barren  lea, 

Unstirred  by  subtle  breathings  of  the 

sea, 

Though  sweet  south-breezes  swell  the 

floodtide's  flow, 

The  lyric  power  in  this  worn   heart  of 

mine 
Droops  in  the  twilight  of    life's    wan 
decline, 
While  the  loosed  cbords  of  song  grown 

lax  and  low, 
Are  dumb  to  all  the  heavenly  airs  that 
blow! 

Only,  sometimes  along  each  shattered 

string 
I  hear  the  ghost  of  Memory  murmur- 
ing 
Old  strains,  as  half  in  sadness  half  in 

scorn, 
So  faint,  so  far,  they  scarcely  pass  the 

bound 
'Twixt    sullen     silence    and     ethereal 

sound, — 
Mere  wraiths  of  murmurous  tone,  that 

die  forlorn 
Ere  yet  we  deem  those  faltering  notes 

are  born ! 

So,  smitten  chords,  sink,  wane,  and  pass 

away ! 
Yet  have  ye  made  soft  music  in  your 

day 
On  many  a  sea-swept  strand  or  breezy 

lawn. 
Once  more  I  hear  that  yearning  music 

rise; 


Once  more  I  see  deep  tears  in  tender 
eyes; 
And  all  my  soul  melts  in  me,  fondly 
drawn 

Back  to  youth's  love  and  youth's  Arca- 
dian dawn ! 


THE    RIFT   "WITHIN   THE    LUTE. 

A  tiny  rift  within  the  lute 
May  sometimes  make  the  music  mute ! 
By  slow  degrees,  the  rift  grows  wide, 
By  slow  degrees,  the  tender  tide  — 
Harmonious  once  —  of  loving  thought 
Becomes  with  harsher  measures  fraught, 
Until  the  heart's  Arcadian  breath 
Lapses  thro'  discord  into  death ! 


IX  HARBOR. 

I  think  it  is  over,  over, 

I  think  it  is  over  at  last, 
Voices  of  foeman  and  lover, 
The  sweet  and  the  bitter  have  passed :  — 
Life,  like  a  tempest  of  ocean 
Hath  outblown  its  ultimate  blast : 
There's  but  a  faint  sobbing  sea-ward 
While  the  calm  of  the  tide  deepens  lee- 
ward. 
And  behold !  like  the  welcoming  quiver 
Of  heart-pulses  throbbed  thro'  the  river, 
Those  lights  in  the  harbor  at  last, 
The  heavenly  harbor  at  last ! 

I  feel  it  is  over!  over! 

For  the  winds  and  the  waters  surcease ; 
Ah !  —  few  were  the  days  of  the  rover 

That  smiled  in  the  beauty  of  peace ! 
And  distant  and  dim  was  the  omen 
That  hinted  redress  or  release :  — 
From  the  ravage  of  life,  and  its  riot 
What  marvel  I  yearn  for  the  quiet 

Which  bides  in  the  harbor  at  last  ? 
For  the   lights    with   their    welcoming 

quiver 
That  through  the  sanctified  river 

Which  girdles  the  harbor  at  last, 

This  heavenly  harbor  at  last  ? 


338 


LATER   POEMS. 


I  know  it  is  over,  over. 

In  turn,  to  love  and  anguish,  joy  and 

I  know  it  is  over  at  last ! 

woe  — 

Down  sail !  the  sheathed  anchor  uncover, 

Dear  Christ !  when  I  am  dead  ? 

For  the  stress  of  the  voyage  has  passed : 

Life,  like  a  tempest  of  ocean 

Though    I    be    dead,   perchance    when 

Hath  outbreathed  its  ultimate  blast: 

Spring  has  shed 

There's  but  a  faint  sobbing  sea-ward, 

Her  gentlest  influence  round  — 

"While  the  calm  of  the  tide  deepens  lee- 

Here, where  love  reigned,  my  ghostly 

ward  : 

feet  may  tread 

And  behold !  like  the  welcoming  quiver 

The  old   accustomed    paths   without  a 

Of  heart-pulses  throbbed  thro'  the  river, 

sound.  — 

Those  lights  in  the  harbor  at  last, 

Perchance  —  when  I  am  dead! 

The  heavenly  harbor  at  last ! 

Though    I    be    dead,    earth's    fragrant 

white  and  red 

XXX. 

Here  in  spring  roses  met, 

FOEECASTLXGS. 

May  to  strange  spiritual  senses  bring  the 
balms 

When  I  am  gone,  what  alien  steps  shall 

Of  tender  memory  and  divine  regret, 

tread 

Yea!  even  to  me  —  though  dead! 

This  flowery  garden-close  ? 

What  alien  hands  shall  pluck  the  violets 

Though  I  be  dead,  with  faded  hands  and 

sweet, 

head 

Or  gather  the  rich  petals  of  the  rose, 

Laid  in  unbreathing  rest  — 

When  I  —  drear  thought !  —  am  dead  ? 

Dear  cottage  roof !  thou  still  mayst  lure 

me  back. 

When  I  am  gone,  toward  doubtful  dark- 

Among  the   unconscious   living  a  wan 

ness  led, 

guest. 

What  voices,  false  or  true, 

Veiled,  as  Fate  veils  the  dead: 

Shall   echo   round    these    old,   familiar 

haunts 

A    guest    of    shadowy  frame,    ethereal 

3Iy  happiest  days  of  tranquil  manhood 

tread, 

knew. 

Amongst  them,  yet  apart  — 

Ah  me!  when  I  am  dead  ? 

A   sombre    mystery!    in   whose    bosom 

throb 

When  I   am  gone,  what   museful   eyes 

The  faint,   slow  pulses  of  its  phantom 

instead 

heart. 

Of  these  dimmed  eyes  of  mine, 

Ah,  heaven!  not  wholly  dead! 

Beneath  yon  trellised  porch  shall  mark 

thro'  heaven, 

On  cloudless  eves  the   summer  sunsets 

XXXI. 

shine, 
When  I,  alas !  am  dead  ? 

APPEAL   TO   STATURE   OF   THE   SOLI- 
TARY  IIEAET. 

When  I  am  gone,  and  all  is  done  and 

Deap,  mother,  take  me  to  thy  breast! 

said. 

I  have  no  other  place  of  rest 

One  life  had  wrought  below  — 

In  all  this  weary  world  of  men  : 

"Mid  these  fair  scenes  what  other  souls 

Ah!  fold  me  in  thy  love  again, 

shall  thrill, 

Sweet  mother;  clasp  me  to  thy  breast! 

POEMS   FOR   SPECIAL    OCCASIONS. 


389 


From  out  thy  womb,  long  since,  I  came, 

FOUR    POEMS   FOR    SPECIAL    OCCA- 

A creature  wrought  of  dust  and  flame; 

SIONS. 

I  knew  no  mortal  mother's  grace, 

I. 

But  only  viewed  thy  mystic  face, 

That  softly  went,  and  softly  came ! 

TO  THE   POET  WHITTIEE. 

OX   HIS  70th   BLRTHDAY. 

I  knew  thee  in  the  sunset  grand, 

Fkom  this  far  realm  of  pines  I  waft  thee 

The  waveless  calm,  the  silvery  strand; 

now 

From   out  the  shimmering    twilight- 

A  brother's  greeting,  Poet,  tried  and 

bars 

true ; 

I  saw  thee  smile  between  the  stars, 

So  thick  the   laurels  on  thy   reverend 

Divinely  sweet,  or  softly  grand ! 

brow, 

We   scarce   can  see   the   white  locks 

I  heard,  beneath  the  sylvan  arch, 

glimmering  through ! 

Thy  battling  winds,  led  on  by  March, 

Sweep  where    the    solemn    pine-tops 

O  pure  of  thought!     Earnest  in  heart 

close 

as  pen, 

About  its  ravaged,  dim  repose  — 

The  tests  of  time  have  left  thee  unde- 

Hushed,  awed,  beneath    the  woodland 

nted; 

arch ! 

And  o'er  the  snows  of  threescore  years 

and  ten 

I  heard  thee,  'mid  some  tender  hour, 

Shines  the  unsullied  aureole  of  a  child. 

In  lisping  leaf  and  rustling  flower, 

In  low  lute-breathings  of  the  breeze, 

n. 

And  tidal  sighs  o'er  moonless  seas 

Star-charmed    in    midnight's   mournful 

TO  O.    W.    HOLSIES, 

hour ! 

OX    HIS    BIRTHDAY. 

Deak  Doctor,  whose  blandly  invincible 

I  thrilled  at  each  far-whispered  tone 

pen 

That  touched    me    from   thy  vast  un- 

Has honored  so  often  your  great  fellow- 

known, 

men 

At  every  dew-bright  hint  that  fell 

With    your   genius    and    virtues,    who 

From  out  thy  sold  unsearchable, 

doubts  it  is  true 

Yea,   each  strange    hint  and   shadowy 

That  the  world  owes  in  turn,  a  warm 

tone ! 

tribute  to  you '? 

I  felt,  through  dim,  awe-laden  space, 

Wheresoever  rare  merit  has   lifted  its 

The  coming  of  thy  veiled  face ; 

head 

And  in  the  fragrant  night's  eclipse 

From  the  cool  country  calm  or  the  city's 

The  kisses  of  thy  deathless  lips, 

hotbed  — 

Like     strange      star-pulses,      throbbed 

You  were  always  the  first  to  applaud  it 

through  space! 

by  name, 

And  to  smooth  for  its  feet  the  harsh 

Now  mine  own  pulses,  beating  low, 

pathway  to  fame. 

Whisper  the  spent  life:  "  Thou  must  go; 

Even  as  a  wasted  rivulet,  pass 

Wheresoever  beneath  the  broad  rule  of 

Beyond  the  light,  beneath  the  grass, 

the  sun, 

For  strength  grows  faint,  and  hope  is 

By  some  spirit  elect,  a  grand  deed  has 

low!" 

been  done  — 

840 


LATER   POEMS. 


Its  electrical  spell   like  the  lightning's 

would  dart, 
Though  the  globe  lay  between,  to  thrill 

first  in  your  heart! 

Philanthropist!  poet!  romancer!  com- 
bined — 

Ay !  shrewd  scientist  too  —  who  shall 
fathom  your  mind. 

Shall  plumb  that  strange  sea  to  the  ut- 
termost deep, 

With  its  vast  under-tides,  and  its  rhyth- 
mical sweep  ? 

You  have  toiled  in  life's  noon,  till  the 

hot  blasting  light 
Blinds  the  eyes  that  would  guage  your 

soul  stature  aright ; 
But  when  eve  comes  at  last,  't  will  be 

clear  to  mankind, 
By  the  length   of  bright  shadow  your 

soul  leaves  behind ! 


TO   EMERSON. 
ON    HIS    77th    BIRTHDAY. 

"  I  do  esteeme  him  a  deepe  sincere  soule  ;  one 
that  seemeth  ever  to  be  travailing  after  the 
Infinite  !  "  —  Sir  Thomas  Browne. 

Ah!  what  to  him  our  trivial  praise  or 
blame, 
Who  through  long  years  hath  raised 
half-mournful  eyes 
Yearning  to  mark  some  heaven-descend- 
ed flame 
Light  his  soul's  altar  rife  with  sacri- 
fice ? 

The  offering  of  far  thoughts,  profound 
as  prayer, 
And  starry  dreams,  still  rhythmical  of 
youth, 
With  travail  of  brain  that  pants  for  lof- 
tier air, 
To  the  veiled  mystery  of  immaculate 
Truth: 


No  Orient  seer  — wild  woodlands,  'round 
him  furled,  — 
Building    his     shrine    'mid    virginal 
vales  apart, 
E'er  watched  and  waited  in  the  antique 
world, 
For   fire   divine,  with    more   ethereal 
heart ! 

Can    life's    supreme   oblations  still   re- 
main 
All  undiscerned  ?  or  hath  some  mar- 
vellous levin 
Hallowed  his  gift,  and  down  his  rifted 
pain 
Flashed  the  white  splendor  of  God's 
grace  from  heaven  ? 

IV. 

TO   HOX.    E.    G.    H. 

UPOX  HIS  78th  BIRTHDAY. 

Close  to  the  verge  of  fourscore  crowded 

years 
Your  heart  is  strong,  your  soul  serene 

and  bright; 
As  when  confronting  first  life's  hopes 

and  fears  — 
The  star  of  manhood  crowned  your  brow 

with  light. 

Clear  thoughts  are  spells  to  keep  the  life- 
blood  pure, 

Brave  aims  are  medicinal,  rife  with 
balm; 

What  wonder  then,  with  thee  life's  joys 
endure, 

And  life's  majestic  sunset  smiles  in 
calm! 

For  thou  art  one  whose  brotherhood 
supreme 

Hath  touched  all  circles  of  benign 
desire ; 

Therefore,  thy  days  like  some  uncloud- 
ed dream. 

Are  slowly  melting  into  heavenly  fire. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


J, A 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


VALERIE'S    CONFESSION. 
TO    A   FKIEXD. 

They  declare  that  I'm  gracefully  pretty, 

The  very  best  waltzer  that  whirls; 
They  say  I  am  sparkling  and  witty, 

The  pearl,  the  queen  rose-bud  of  girls. 
But,  alas  for  the  popular  blindness! 

Its  judgment,  though  folly,  can  hurt: 
Since  my  heart,   that    runs    over  with 
kindness, 

It  vows  is  the  heart  of  a  flirt! 

How,  how,  can  I  help  it,  if  Xature, 

Whose  mysteries  baffle  our  ken, 
Hath  made  me  the  tenderest  creature 

That  ever  had  pity  on  men  ? 
When  the  shafts  of  my  luminous  glances 

Have  tortured  some  sensitive  breast, 
Why,  I  soften  their  light  till  it  trances 

The  poor  womided  bosom  to  rest ! 

Can  I  help  it  if,  brought  from  all  regions, 

As  diverse  in  features  as  gait, 
Rash  lovers  besiege  me  in  legions, 

Each  lover  demanding  his  fate  ? 
To  be  cold  to  such  fervors  of  feeling 

Would    pronounce   me   a   dullard   or 
dunce ; 
And  so,  the  bare  thought  sets  me  reel- 
ing, 

I'm  engaged  to  six  suitors  at  once! 

The   first,  —  we  shall  call   him  ' '  sweet 
William," 
He' s  a  lad  scarcely  witty  or  wise  — 
The  gloom  of  the  sorrows  of  "  Ilium  " 
Would  seem    to   outbreathe    on    his 
sisrhs. 


When  I  strove,  half  in  earnest,  to  flout 
him, 
Pale,  pale  at  my  footstool  he  sunk ; 
But   mamma,  quite  too  ready  to  scout 
him, 
Would  hint  that  '"sweet  Willie"  was 
drunk! 

My  second,  a  florid  Adonis 
Of  f  orty-and-five,  to  a  day, 
Drives  me  out  in*his  phaeton  with  po- 
nies, 
Making  love  every  yard  of  the  way, 
Who  so  pleasantly  placed   could  resist 
him  ? 
Had  he  popped  'neath  the  moonlight 
and  dew 
That  eve,  I  could  almost  have  kissed  him 
(A  confession  alone,  dear,  for  you). 

Xext,  a  widower,  polished  and  youthful, 

Far  famed  for  his  learning  and  pelf : 
Can  I  doubt  that  his  passion  is  truthful, 

That  he  seeks  me  alone  for  myself  ? 
Yet  I  know  that  some  slanderers  mutter 

His  fortune  is  just  taking  wings ; 
But  I  scorn  the  backbiters  who  utter 

Such  basely  censorious  things ! 

Could  they  hearken   his    love-whisper, 
dulcet 
As  April's  soft  tide  on  the  strand, 
Whose  white   curves    are   loath    to  re- 
pulse it, 
So  sweet  is  its  homage  and  bland ; 
Could  they  hear  how  his  dead  wife's  de- 
votion 
He  praises,  while  yearning  for  mine  — 
They  would  own  that  his  ardent  emotion 
Is  something  —  yes  —  almost  divine  ! 


344 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


My  fourth  —  would  to    heaven  I    could 
paint  him 
As  next  the  high  altar  he  stands  — 
A   Saint  John,    all   the  people    besaint 
him? 
Pale  brow  and  immaculate  hands, 
Ah!    his   tones   in   their   wooing  seem 
holy, 
Xor  dare  I  believe  it  misplaced, 
When  an  arm  of   the    church,  stealing 
slowly. 
Is  folded,  at  length,  round  my  waist; 

Behold  tbis  long  list  of  my  lovers 

With  a  soldier  and  sailor  complete: 
Both  swear  that  their   hearts   were   but 
rovers 
Till  fettered  and  bound  at  my  feet. 
Oh  dear!    but  these  worshippers  daunt 
me: 
Their  claims,  their  vain  wishes,  appall; 
'Tis   sad   how   they  harass    and    haunt 
me,  — 
What,  what,  shall  I  do  with  them  all? 


As   tbe    foam-flakes,    when   steadfastly 
blowing, 
The  west  wind    sweeps  reckless    and 
free, 
Are  borne  where  the  deep  billows,  flow- 
ing. 
Pass  out  to  a  limitless  sea, 
So  the  gay  spume  of  girlish  romances, 

Upcaught  by  true  Love  on  his  breath. 
With  the  fretwork  and  foam  of  young 
fancies, 
AVas  borne  through  vague  distance  to 
death. 

For     he    came  —  the    true   hero  -*-  one 
morning, 
And  my  soul  with  quick  thrills  of  de- 
light 
Leaped  upward,  renewed,  and  reborn  in 
A  world  of  strange  beauty  and  might: 
I  seemed  fenced  from  all  earthly  disas- 
ter; 


My  pulses  beat  tuneful  and  fast; 
So  1  welcomed  my  monarch,  my  master 
The  first  real  love,  and  the  last. 


A  MEETING   OF   THE  BIRDS. 

Of    a   thousand    queer   meetings,   both 

great,  sir,  and  small 
The  bird-party  /  sing  of  seemed  oddest 

of  all ! 

How  they  come  to  assemble  —  a  multi- 
form show  — 

From  all  parts  of  the  earth,  is  —  well 
—  more  than  J  know. 

I  only  can  vow  that,  one  fine  night  of 

June, 
In  a  vast,  varied  garden,  made  bright  by 

the  moon, 

Such   bird-throngs   I  saw,  with   plumes 

brilliant  or  dark, 
As  had  ne'er  met,  I  deem,  since  the  age 

of  the  ark: 

There  the  phoenix,   upborne  on  a  tall 

jasper  spar. 
His  fair  mate  by  his  side,  shone  serene 

as  a  star; 

With  a  calm  sort  of  pride  glancing  down 

on  all  others. 
As  scorning  to  claim  such  canaille  for 

his  brothers! 

He  alone  of  earth's  creatures  (more  wise 

far  than  Adam), 
When  Eve  tempted  him,  said  "Excuse 

me.  good  madam! 

"Xo    juice  from   that   fruit  shall   e'er 

moisten  my  thrapple! 
Delicious!    perhaps   .   .    but   who    gave 

you  the  apple  ?"* 

*  Tradition  says  that  when  Adam  ate  of  the 
forbidden  fruit,  at  Eve's  instigation,  the 
phcenix,  alone,  of  all  creatures,  equally  tempt- 
ed, did  not  fall. 


I 


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o4G 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


That   bird  congregation  broke  up  in  a 

row, 
Whose  noises,    half   dreaming,  1  catch 

even  now. 

But  the  last  glimpse  of  all  that  flashed 

quick  on  my  eyes, 
Ere    the    whole    meeting    faded   'twixt 

garden  and  skies, 

"Was  the  cuckoo's  unwearied,  nefarious 

leg 
Scratching  fast  to  discover  a  phoenix's 

egg, 

Which,  if  found,  I've  no  doubt,  was 
close-hidden  and  pressed 

By  the  vile  little  wretch,  with  quite 
mother-like  breast. 

Yet     I've    seen    other    creatures    than 

creatures  with  wings 
Who   dared   to   make   free  with   thrice 

sanctified  things. 

From  whose  false  incubation  what  creeds 

came  in  vogue ! 
Even  truth's  egg  is  marred  if  hatched 

out  by  a,  rogue  ! 


A  BA  CUE  I  OR -BOOK  WORM' S  COM- 
PLAINT OF  THE  LATE  PRESIDEN- 
TIAL  ELECTION. 

[Written  during  the  Hayes  and   Tilden 

Controversy]. 

A  man  of  peace,  I  never  dared  to  marry, 
Lover  of  tranquil  hours,  I  dwelt  apart; 
Outside  the  realm  where  noisy  schemes 
miscarry; 
My  only  handmaids,  Science,  Learn- 
ing, Art; 
Oh !  home  of  pleasant  thought,  of  calm 

affection, 
All  blasted  now  by  this  last  vile  election! 

One  morn,  absorbed  in  studious  contem- 
plation 
Of  what  or  whom,  I  cannot  now  recall, 


A  strident  voice,  "  Eise!  help  to  save  the 

nation!  " 
Roared  in  mine   ear,  half  bellow  and 

half  squall; 
"  Throw  by  your  books,  why,man,  there's 

treason  brewing; 
Come,   come   with   me,  we'll   block  the 

march  of  ruin!  " 

My  neighbor,  Dobson — all  the  gods  con- 
found him! 
Seized,  shook  and  hauled  me  from  my 
cushioned  seat; 

(Just  then   I   could    have   drugged  the 
wretch,  or  drowned  him;) 
But  the  next  moment  on  bewildered 
feet, 

I  trudged  with  him  through  dirty  streets 
and  weather, 

That  we  might  vote  at  the  next  poll  to- 
gether. 

Vote !  vote  for  whom  ?    I'd  not  the  faint- 
est notion ; 
Little  I  recked  of  modern  joys  or  woes ; 

Wrapped   in  Greek   wars    and    ancient 
Home's  commotion, 
What  passed   beneath  my  philosophic 
nose, 

Seemed  dim  as  glimmerings  of  a  mid- 
night taper 

Marked  from  afar  through  autumn  clouds 
and  vapor! 

At  length  we  paused  before  a  wood-wrork 

wicket, 
Shrining  the  grimy  guardian  of  the 

poll; 
Into  my  hands  they  thrust  a    printed 

ticket, 
An  ink-besmeared,  suspicious-looking 

scroll, 
Which,  ne'ertheless,  held  names  of  men 

whose  action 
Would  cow  — they  swore  —  the  brazen 

front  of  faction ! 

With  scarce  a  glance,  in  vacant  mood,  I 
cast  it; 
That  ticket  soiled  into  as  soiled  a  box ; 


A  BACHELOR-BOOKWORM'S   COMPLAINT,   ETC. 


347 


A  box,   I  thought,   half   vaguely   as   I 

Fight,    if   he   knows   the  wily  tricks  of 

passed  it ; 

"  science,"  * 

Whose  guardian  "  Rough  "  looked  wily 

Fly,  if  he  knows  not  when  to  smite, 

as  a  fox, 

and  why; 

Willing,  no  doubt,  for  any  public  hero, 

Needless  to  say,  in  this  disastrous  mat- 

To cheat  ad  lib.  —  a  Brutus,  or  a  Nero! 

ter. 

Of  the  two  ways.   I  wisely  chose  —  the 

Well !  from  that   day,    my  peace  of  life 

latter! 

was  shattered; 

Dobson  would  come,  all  lowering  or 

I  left  my  home ;  I  fled  to  shades  subur- 

ablaze 

ban, 

With  joy,    to  shout  —  (as  if  the  issue 

Where  an  old  aunt,  as  deaf  as  twenty 

mattered' ) 

posts. 

Now  "Tilden's  won!"  now  "glorious 

(A  fine  antique,  bedecked  with  lace  and 

Ruthy  Hayes!" 

turban.) 

Vainly  I  argued,  vainly  vowed  that  d — n 

Lived  in  a  house  unknown  to  rats  or 

me, 

ghosts ; 

I  didn't  care  three  straws  for  Ruth  or — 

There,  far  from  party  conflicts,  proud  or 

Sammy ! 

petty, 

I   dwell   at  peace,  with  sober  Madame 

"  Have  I  not  Scipio  and  majestic  Cato, 

Betty! 

With  their  grand  deeds  to  ponder  yet?  " 

I  cried ; 

At    peace!    good     lack,    the    universal 

"  Why,  dunder-headed  Dobson,  will  you 

virus 

prate  so, 

Of  party  strife  had  captive  made  the 

Of  modern   dwarfs   of  time  and  fate 

air, 

untried ;  ' ' 

The  light,  the  very  sun-motes  shifting 

"Untried!''   quoth    he,  aghast    at   my 

nigh  us, 

iniquity; 

And    thus,     alas!     it    entered    even 

"I'll  back  them  both,  by  Jove!  'gainst 

there; 

all  antiquity! " 

Up,  down  her  stairs,  how  oft  had  I  to 

stump  it, 

And  still  he  came,  morning,  and  noon, 

Shrieking  the  news  through  her  infernal 

and  twilight, 

trumpet. 

Bringing,  at  last,  his  party  henchmen 

too; 

Baffled,  once  more   I  sought  the  public 

0 !  how  I  yearned  to  blow  them  through 

pass-ways, 

the  skylight, 

But   then,    from   morn  to  midnight's 

Or,  at  the  gentlest,  beat  them  black 

"  witching  noon," 

and  blue; 

Monotonous  as  when  some  blatant  ass 

Each  cursed  and  threatened  like  some 

brays, 

desperate  Lara ; 

The  same  mixed  clamors  rose  'neath 

Meanwhile  they  quaffed  and  quaffed  my 

sun  and  moon ; 

best  Madeira! 

Tilden  and  Hayes  in  never-ceasing  wran- 
gle, 
Who  the  vexed  "  snarl  "  shall  ever  dis- 

A point  there  is  beyond  the  soul's  de- 

fiance. 

entangle  '? 

Which   gained,  a  mortal    man    must 
fight,  or  fly; 

*  Ring  science,  of  course. 

348 


11 UMOR  0  US    1'  OEM  S. 


Bank,  hall,  and  market,  counting-house 

and  alley, 
Patrician  parlor  and  low  bar-room  den, 
Echoed,   as   'twere,   cries   of   retreat   or 

rally, 
From  brassy  throats  of  many  thousand 

men ; 
Such    foolish    boasts    were    blent    with 

threats  as  silly, 
Yet  even  the  wise  men  babbled  —  willy 

nitty. 

The  very  nurse-maids  with   their   baby 
charges, 
Took  sides,  and  squabbled;  newsboys 
shouting  loud, 

Scuttled   along    the    slippery  pavement 
marges, 
And  burst  like  young  bulls  through  the 
motley  crowd 

Of   parsons,    black-legs,  dandies,  hack- 
men,  bummers; 

Swollen  each  moment  by  some  rash  new 


Around  the  telegraph  stands  they  surged 
and  battled, 
Till  direful  Hades  seemed  unloosed  on 
earth; 

Lies  were  exchanged,  cudgels  and  brick- 
bats rattled ; 
The  veriest  blackguard   scorned    the 
man  of  birth, 

And    tweaked  his  nose,  or  knocked  his 
beaver  double — 

Ah  me !  the  noise,  the  blows,  the  furious 
trouble! 

Ipassed  a  gay  "Bazaar,"  and   glanced 

within  it. 
Of   silks  and  satins,  what  a  dazzling 

maze! 
Fair    tongues    were    wagging    smartly; 

every  minute, 
"Of  course  'tis  Tilden!"  "  nay,  not  so, 

'tis  Hayes!  " 
Bose,  with  the  rustle  of  bright  garments 

blending — 
A  strife  of  voices,  eager  and  unending! 


You'd  scarce  believe  it;  but  maids  fair 
and  tender. 
Dancing  from  school,  the  merest  slips 
of  girls. 

Shrilled  Hayes  or  Tilden,  and  with  fin- 
gers slender, 
Caught  and  dragged   fiercely  at  each 
others*  curls; 

111  words  they  spake — those  inconsiderate 
misses  — 

From  rosebud  lips  just  framed  for  love 
and  kisses! 


Enough!  the  die  is  cast;  from  rage  and 

riot, 
I'll  cross  o'er  mountain  walls  and  ocean 

streams, 
To  seek   and   find  again,   that  gracious 

quiet, 
Whose   charm   hath   left  me,  save  in 

transient  dreams; 
In  some  far  land  and  time,  my  spirit 

stilled  then — 
1   may  —  who     knows  —  forgive    both 

Hayes  and  Tilden ! 


COQUETTE   AND  HER   LOVER. 

A    "PETITE     COMEDIE"     IX     RHYME. 

LOVEIi. 

Coquette!  coquette!  now,  is  it  fair 
To  weave  for  me  your  magic  hair, 
Binding  me  thus,  all  unaware  ? 
Till,  wholly  meshed  in  every  part, 
From  dazzled  eyes  to  captured  heart, 
Scarce  can  1,  thro'  your  radiant  snare, 
Inhale  one  waft  of  free-born  air; 
Answer,  coquette !  now,  is  it  fair  ? 

coquette. 
O,  foolish  querist !  what  if  I, 
Beholding  your  enamored  face 
And  every  well-attested  trace 
Of  verdant,  young  idolatry, 
Should,  after  my  own  fashion,  choose 
To  play  the  subtly-amorous  muse, 


COQUETTE   AND   HER   LOVER. 


849 


Your  inexperienced  heart-strings  touch, 
Wooing  the  warm  chords  overmuch ! 
Or  tempt  you,  :t\vixt  a  smile  and  sigh, 
To  enter  beauty's  luminous  net  ? 
Such  snares  must  evermore  be  set 


For  blinded  human  tlies  like  you! 
Cease,  therefore,  this  half-feigned  ado, 
You.  are  a  natural  victim!     I 
Am  by  the  same  strange  law's  decree, 
Your  dear,  predestined  enemy! 


'For  full  five  seconds,  it  would  seem 
As  if  you  really  thought,  coquette, 
On  something  grave." 


LOVER. 

Is  such  the  only  comfort,  then, 
You  give  to  thrice-deluded  men  ? 
Suppose  our  life-plan  quite  upset, 
Reversed  in  whole,  or  changed  in  part ; 
My  sex  your  own.  and  feelings  strong, 
(Wiled  by  deep  passion's  syren  song); 
Yours  the  blind  victim's  tangled  heart. 
And  mine  to  weave  the  tempter's  net  — 
What  then,  O!  honey-tongued  coquette  ? 


COQUETTE. 

Such  questions!  —  ah!   monDieu!  mon 

Bieu  !  — 
Fancy7  I've  places  changed  with  you! 
I  cannot!  'tis  too  hard  a  task 
Of  any  mortal  belle  to  ask! 

[aside  with  a  half -humorous,  half-solemn  air.] 
Fancy  my  person  changer!  to  his 
By  some  odd  metamorphosis ! 


350 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


My  fairy  frame  to  that  huge  bulk 
That  might  befit  red  Rory  O'Fulke, 
Our  Irish  groom!  —  six  feet,  at  least, 
Of  stature  —  with  that  boundless  waist, 
Instead  of  mine,  Titania  might 
Quite  envy  on  a  "  round-dance  "  night, 
By  all  the  waltzing  beaux  adored ! 
My  brow  to  that  great,  sabre-scored 
Brown    forehead;    and  my   cheeks    of 

rose 
To  bearded  puffs  ;  my  delicate  nose  — 
Quel  horreur  !  'tis  a  hideous  dream! 

LOVER. 

For  full  five  seconds,  it  would  seem 
As  if  you  really  thought,  coquette, 
On  something  grave !    Slowly  about 
Your  flower-like  lips'  delicious  pout, 
Came  tiny  puckerings,  lined  with  doubt; 
Your    large     eyes    widened    deep    and 

blue, 
As   May-skies   glimpsed   thro'   morning 

dew; 
And  shadows  vague  as  noon-tide  trance 
Stole  o'er  your  vivid  countenance: 
Coquette!  show  pity!  —  after  all, 
Have  you  resolved  to  free  from  thrall 
Your  wretched  serf  ?  .  .  .  Close,  close 

your  eyes 
For  one  brief,  merciful  minute;  try 
To  turn  your  perfect  mouth  awry; 
Let  those  arch  smiles  which  magnetize 
My  inmost  blood  be  changed  to  scorn ; 
Do  all  a  winsome  lady  born 
To  loveliness  and  witchery,  can, 
To  flout  a  love-tormented  man ! 

COQUETTE. 

You  know  as  well  as  I 
What  balms  have  soothed  your  slavery ; 
Besides,  I'm  sure,  whatever  you  say, 
There  never  yet  has  dawned  the  clay 
On  which,  in  truth  ('tis  vain  to  frown), 
You  longed  to  lay  your  fetters  down. 
Surely  but  airy  chains  they  are, 
And  tenuous  as  the  farthest  star. 
But  should  you  break  the  binding  net, 
You'd  come  .  .  .   (ah!  graceless,  thank- 
less loon!) 


'Ere  the  next  wax  or  wane  of  moon, 
To  sigh,  or  call  on  "sweet  coquette!" 

LOVER. 

Too   much!    by  heaven!    you  heartless 

chit! 
I'll  prove  you  underrate  my  wit, 
And  self-respect,  for  all  that's  passed! 
I  will  —  will  break  these  bonds  at  last. 
Yes!  look!  you  false,  hard-hearted  girl ! 
I  dash  to  earth  the  dazzling  curl 
You  gave  me  once!  .   .  .  your  portrait 

too!  .  .  . 
(O,  yes!  I  stole  it,  .  .  .  what  of  that  ? 
'Twill  soon  be  shapeless,  crushed  and 

flat, 
Beneath  my  stern,  avenging  heel ! 
Would  it  were  flesh,  and  so  could  feel, 
.  .  .  Where  is  it!  where? 
[He   searches  frantically,  but  vainly  for  the 
likeness  in  one  pocket  after  another.'] 

[Coquette — approaching  with  infinite  sweet- 
ness, rests  one  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  while 
the  forefinger  of  the  other  is  archly  shaken  in 
his  angry  face,  that  changes  with  ludicrous 
quickness,  from  passion  to  bewilderment,  and 
from  bewilderment  to  rapture] : 

.  .  .  Why,  Hal,  for  shame!  you  prayed 

just  now, 
With  earnest  mien  and  solemn  brow, 
That  I  would  sting  you  with  hot  scorn ; 
"  Do  all  a  winsome  lady  born 
To  loveliness  and  witchery,  can, 
To  flout  a  love-tormented  man." 
And  lo!  because  your  bidding's  done; 
Half-way,  and  mildly;  why,  I've  won 
Such  rude  abuse !  .  .  .  I  shall  not  stir, 
Till  you  have  begged  my  pardon,  sir ! 
.  .  .  Hal !  do  you  love  me  ?  .  .  . 

LOVER. 

.  .  .   Angel!  saint! 

Ca  n  this  be  true !  .   .  .  my  heart  grows 

faint, 

With  happiness!  .  .   .  so  then,  despite — 

coquette  (interrupting). 
Yes,    dear!    of    feigned    contempt    and 

slight, 
—  I  have  loved  you  always !  who  but  you 


THE   OBSERVANT  "ELDEST"   SPEAKS. 


351 


Had  failed  thus  long  to  read  me  true  ? 
You  dear,  delightful,  blundering  boy. 

LOVER. 

.  .  .  Cupid  be  blessed !  Oh,  love !  Oh,  joy ! 
.  .  .  But  where's  that  precious  curl  I 

threw 
Rashly  away  ?  .  .  .  Already  flown 
On  some  light  wind  ? 

COQUETTE. 

Yes,  yes,  'tis  gone! 

But  then  the  whole  bright,  golden  net 

(shaking  down  her  curls.) 
You've  gained  with    me!  ...  If    still 

unfair 
You  deem  this  soft,  imprisoning  snare; 
And  self-respect,  for  all  tbat's  passed, 
Demands  you  break  your  bonds  at  last, 
Give  me  due  warning  —  if  you  please  — 

lover  (embracing  her). 
Ah !  thus  a  loving  seal  is  set 
On  rosy  lips  to  keep  them  dumb ; 
Some  other  eve  beneath  the  trees 
Of  golden  summer,  'mid  the  hum 
Of  forest  brooks  and  hive-bound  bees, 
I'll  hearken,  madcap,  while  you  tease. 
But  now,  my  heart  the  future  years 
Sees  through  a  mist  of  blissful  tears ; 
My  eyes  with  gracious  dew  are  wet ; 
I'm  dreaming!  .  .  .  No!  .  .  .  here  smiles 

coquette ! 


SENEX   TO  HIS  FRIEND. 
ABOUT  THE  PERIOD  OF  A  NEW  YEAR. 

Dedicated  to  Sam'l  Lord,  Jr.,  Charleston,  S.C. 

Your  hair  is  scant,  my  friend,  and  mine 

is  scanter, 
On  heads  snowed  white  by  Time,  the 

disenchanter; 
In  place  of  joyous   beams    and    jovial 

twinkles, 
Behold,  old  boy,  our  faces  scored  with 

wrinkles ! 


Sparkles  your  legal  lore  with  salt  that's 

Attic ! 
But,  ah!    those  twinges  (gout?),   those 

pangs  rheumatic! 
With  muse  of  mine  no  more  the  public 

quarrels, 
But,  Lord!  how  cold  I  feel  despite  the 

laurels ! 

If  spiced  your  fame,  not  so  your  milk  or 

sago: 
Only  mild  diet  suits  a  sharp  lumbago. 
While  as  for  me  —  what  critic  "puff" 

avails  one 
Whose  own   short    breath  (asthmatic!) 

almost  fails  one  ? 

The  world  we  deemed  so  rife  with  fade- 
less prizes  — 

Which  of  us  most  its  hollow  show  de- 
spises ? 

We'd  yield  our  gains  for  just  one  mar- 
vellous minute 

Of  our  lost  youth,  with  all  youth's  glory 
in  it! 

Yet  from  this  House  of  Life,  now 
wrapped  in  twilight, 

Gleams  'mid  the  shadowy  roof  Faith's 
magic  skylight ; 

Whereby  as  night  steals  down  through 
weird  gradations, 

We  hail  the  glow  of  heavenly  constella- 
tions. 

So,  as  through  darkness  only  dawn  the 

graces 
Of  God's  calm  stars  and  lofty  shining 

spaces, 
That  night  called  death  which  shrouds 

our  bodies  breathless 
May  flood  the  heaven  of  soul  with  peace 

made  deathless. 


THE  OBSERVANT  "  ELDEST"  SPEAKS. 

"  Pa  vows  that  all  gluttony's  wicked; 

He's  always  for  docking  my  meat, 
And  ne'er  at  dessert  will  he  give  me 

Enough  of  what's  racy  and  sweet: 


352 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


Yet  he'll  gorge  and  gorge  on  at  his  din- 
ners, 
As  restless  in  month  as  in  hand ;  — 
Now,  say,  — if  all  gluttons  are  sinners, 
Where  —  where  does  my   'governor' 
stand ! 


"  Oh!  pa's  most  impressive  on  lying; 

(  'Meanest  crime  in  the  annals  of  sin ; ' ) 
Yet    why  does    he    tell    folk   (through 
Thomas) 
That  he's  out  when  he  knows  that  he's 
in  ? 
And  ma's  done  the   same,   when    she 
meant  not 
From  house  nor  from  chamber  to  stir: 
I  suppose  what  is  punished  in  me,  sir, 
Is  all  right  in  him  or  in  her  ! 

"Pa   says,   that     good    men    must    be 
generous, 
Self-denying,  benevolent,  kind ; ' 
Then  why  does  he  give  those  poor  beg- 
gars 
Just   nothing?     The   lame    and    the 
blind. 
Small  orphan,  and  wan,  pining  widow, 
The' gold-covered  head  and  the  gray, 
Unsoothed  and  unhelped  in   their    sor- 
rows, 
From  him  turn  —  how  sadly  —  away! 

"Pa  counsels  fair  words  of  our  neigh- 
bors ;  — 
Ob!    he  dotes  on  the  pure    'golden 
rule ; ' — 
Yet  he  calls  Aunt  Selina  '  back-biter,' 

And  he  dubs  Uncle  Reuben  '  a  fool." 
And  when  I  said.  '  Young  Eeub's  like 
bis  father,' 
On  what  text  in  reply  did  pa  lean? 
Why.  '  Whoso  thou  fool  shall  dare  utter,' 
Must  taste  —  well,   you  know  what  I 
mean! 

"  Pa    says.     '  we    must    reverence    our 
elders ; '  — 
How   be   harps    and  he  harps   upon 
that; — 


Yet  grandfather,  who's  ninety  and  up- 
ward. 
He  treats  like  an  imbecile  '  flat.' 
And  once  when  poor  grandpa,  at  break- 
fast, 
Mistook  the  slop-bowl  for  his  cup, 
Pa  muttered,  '  I  wish  the  old  dotard 
Were  locked  —  somewhere  —  heedfully 
up ! ' 

"I  don't  know   what  the  'governor's' 
made  of ; 

But  truly,  if  lie  were  not  he, 
(I  mean  if  be  were  not  my  '  pater'  — 

Alack!  that  sucli  fathers  should  be,) 
His  name  would  begin  as  I  spelt  it, 

With  a  big  blatant  H,  if  you  please, 
And  conclude  with  the  tiniest,  meanest, 

But  most  self-sufficient  of  e's!" 


LUCIFER'S  DEPUTY. 
A   MEDIAEVAL   LEGEND. 

A  poet  once,  whose  tuneful  soul,  per- 

cbance. 
Too  fondly  leaned  toward  sin.  and  sin's 

romance. 
On  a  long  vanished  eve,  so  calm  and 

clear 
None  could  have  deemed  an  evil  spirit 

near, 
Brooding  ill  deeds,  was  summoned  by  a 

writ, 
In  the  due  form  of  Hades,  to  the  Pit; 
A  red-nosed,  red-haired  fiend  the  sum- 

moner, 
About  whose  horrent  head  his  locks  did 

stir 
Like  half-waked  serpents!    "Well,"  in 

wrath  and  woe, 
The  poet  cried.  "  whom  the  De'il  drives 

must  go, 
Whate'er  the  goal!    Yet  much  I  wish 

that  he 
Had  sent  as  guide  some  nobler  fiend  than 

thee, 
Thou  hideous  varlet!" 


LUCIFER'S   DEPUTY 


353 


"  Come,  keep  cool,  I  say," 
Counselled  the  other  sagely,  "  while  you 

may!" 
Whereon,  as  half  in  scorn  and  half  in 

ire, 
He  haled  the  poet  to  the  realm  of  fire. 

Arrived  in  bounds  Hadean,  a  vast  rout 

Of  fiends  they  met,  who  rushed  tumultu- 
ous out, 

To  roam  the  earth  and  those  doomed 
spirits  snare 

Who  unsuspecting  lived  and  acted 
there ; 

Till  in  a  few  brief  seconds  the  whole 
crew 

Of  crowding  demons  —  black,  brown, 
green  and  blue  — 

All  but  their  haughty  chief,  his  form  up- 
reared 

Through  the  red  mist,  had  wildly  dis- 
appeared. 

Then  said  the  dark  archangel  to  the 

bard : 
"  Thine  eye  is  bright,  thou  hast  a  shrewd 

regard ; 
And,  therefore,  ere  I  likewise  o'er  the 

marge 
Of  Hades  wing  my  way  for  some  brief 

hours, 
To  thee  I  choose  to  delegate  my  powers 
As  chief  and  sovereign  of  this  kingdom 

dread, 
To  which,  if  well  thou  guardest,  by  my 

head 
Thy  recompense,   when  I  come  back, 

shall  be 
A  luscious  tid  bit,  garnished  daintily  — 
No  meaner  entree  than  a  roasted  monk, 
(Before    he's    cooked    we'll    make    the 

rascal  drunk, 
To  spice  his  juices!);  or,   if  thou'dst 

prefer 
Yon  leaner  and  less  succulent  usurer, 
Why,  of  our  toil  and  time  with  trifling 

loss, 
We'll  serve  him  up,  larded  with  golden 

sauce!" 


But  while  the  absent  fiends  their  cunning 

tasked 
To  trap  unwary  souls,  thick  cloaked  and 

masked, 
One    entered    Hades    who     did     soon 

entice 
The  heedless   bard  to  play  a  game  at 

dice, 
Staking  the  souls  he  held    in    charge 

thereon. 
The  stranger  played  superbly  —  played, 

and  won. 
So,  gathering  round  him  the  freed  souls, 

with  care 
And  kind  despatch,  safe  to  the  outward 

aii- 
He  led  them  triumphing;  and  all  who 

now 
Looked    on    his    unmasked    face    and 

glorious  brow 
I   Knew  that  St.  Peter  stood  amongst  them 

there. 
!   But  when  the  devils,  trooping  homeward, 

found 
I   Their  kingdom  void  —  its  conflagrations 

drowned 
I   As  'twere  by  showers  from  Heaven  — 

such  curses  rose  — 
I   Like    thunder    bellowing    through    the 

strange  repose 
|   Which   late    had    reigned  —  the    poet's 

head  whirled  round, 
Stunned  by  the  tumult.     But  ere  long, 

with  whirr 
And    furious    whizz,    his     right    hand 

Lucifer 
Brought  m  such  stinging  contact  with 

one  cheek 
And  then  the  other,  that  our  minstrel, 

weak 
From  pain  and  fear,  sank  trembling  on 

the  floor. 
But  sternly  Satan  pointed  to  the  door. 
Where  through  his  faithless  guard,  with 

many  a  kick 
And  echoing  thump,  and  one  swift  mer- 
ciless prick 
Of  a  keen  pitchfork,  was  thrust  forth  in 

shame 


354 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


From  out  the  empire  of  fierce  grief  and  !   So,  brother  bards,  whate'er  ye  write  or 

flame,  do, 

In  even  more  woeful  plight  than  when  i   Be  fearless.     Hades  holds  no  place  for 

he  came !  you : 


Then   Lucifer  upraised   his    arms    and 

swore 
A  mighty  oath  that  Hades'  lurid  door 
No  poet's  form  should  ever  enter  more! 


Since  if  on  earth  men  deem  your  worth 

but  small, 
Why  there,  'tis  plain,  ye  have  no  worth 

at  all ! 


POEMS    FOR    CHILDREN. 


POEMS    FOR    CHILDREN. 


LITTLE  NELLIE   IN  THE  PRISON. 

The  eyes  of  i  child  are  sweeter  than  any  hymn 

we  have  sung, 
And  wiser  than  any  sermon  is  the  lisp  of  a 

childish  tongue! 

Hugh  Falcon  learned  this  happy  truth 

one  day ; 
("Twas  a  fair  noontide  in  the  month  of 

May)- 
When,  as  the  chaplain  of  the  convicts' 

jail, 
He  passed  its  glowering  archway,  sad 

and  pale, 
Bearing  his  tender  daughter  on  his  arm. 
A  five   years'  darling    she!    The  dewy 

charm 
Of  Eden   star-dawns   glistened   in   her 

eyes; 
Her  dimpled  cheeks  were  rich  with  sun- 
ny dyes. 

"Papa!"    the   child  that  morn  while 

still  abed, 
Drawing  him  close  toward   her,  shyly 

said: 
"  Papa!  oh,  won't  you  let  your  Nellie  go 
To  see  those  naughty  men  that  plague 

you  so, 
Down  in  the  ugly  prison  by  the  wood  ? 
Papa,  I'll   beg   and   pray   them   to   be 

good." 
"  What,  you,  my  child  ?  "  he  said,  with 

half  a  sigh. 
"  Why  not,  papa  ?     I'll  beg  them  so  to 

try." 

The  chaplain,  with  a  father's  gentlest 
grace, 

Kissed  the  small  ruffled  brow,  the  plead- 
ing face : 


"  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  suck- 
lings still, 

Praise  is  perfected,"  thought  he;  thus, 
his  will 

Blended  with  hers,  and  through  those 
gates  of  sin, 

Black,  even  at  noontide,  sire  and  child 
passed  in. 

Fancy  the  foulness  of  a  sulphurous  lake, 
Wherefrom  a  lily's   snow-white  leaves 

should  break, 
Flushed    by  the  shadow  of  an  unseen 

rose! 
So,  at  the   iron   gate's  loud  clang  and 

close, 
Shone  the  drear  twilight  of  that  place 

defiled, 
Touched  by  the  flower-like  sweetness  of 

the  child ! 
O'er  many  a    dismal  vault,  and   stony 

floor, 
The  chaplain   walked   from  ponderous 

door  to  door, 
Till  now  beneath  a  stairway's  dizzy  flight 
He  stood  and  looked  up  the  far-circling 

height ; 
But  risen  of  late  from   fever's  torture- 
bed. 
How  could  he  trust  his  faltering  limbs 

and  head '? 

Just  then,  he  saw,  next  to  the  mildewed 

wall, 
A  man  in  prisoner's  raiment,  gaunt  and 

tall, 
Of   sullen   aspect,   and   wan,    downcast 

face, 
Gloomed  in  the  midnight  of  some  deep 

disgrace; 


358 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN, 


He  shrank  as  one  who  yearned  to  fade 

away, 
Like  a  vague  shadow  on  the  stone-work 

gray, 
Or  die  beyond  it,  like  a  viewless  wind; 
He  seemed  a  spirit  faithless,  passionless, 

blind 
To  all  fair  hopes  which  light  the  hearts 

of  men,  — 
A  didl.  dead  soul,  never  to  wake  again ! 

The    chaplain    paused,    half    doubting 

what  to  do, 
When  little  Nellie  raised  her  eyes  of  blue, 
And.  no  wise  daunted  by  the  downward 

stir 
Of  shaggy  brows  that  glowered  askance 

at  her, 
Said,  —  putting  by  her  wealth  of  sunny 

hair,  — 
"Sir,  will  you  kindly  take    me  up  the 

stair ? 
Papa   is  tired,    and   I'm    too    small   to 

climb." 
Frankly  her  eyes  in  his    gazed   all  the 

time; 
And     something    to    her      childhood's   j 

instinct  known 
So  worked   within  her,  that   her  arms 

were  thrown  ! 

About  his  neck.     She  left  her  sire's  em-   j 

brace 
Near  that  sad  convict-heart  to  take  her   i 

place, 
Sparkling  and  trustful!  —  more  she  did 

not  speak; 
But  her  quick  fingers  patted  his  swart 

cheek 
Caressingly,  —  in  time  to  some  old  tune 
Hummed    by  her    nurse,    in   summer's 

drowsy  noon ! 

Perforce  he  turned  his  wild,  uncertain 

gaze 
Down  on  the  child !     Then  stole  a  treni- 

idous  haze 
Across  his  eyes,  but  rounded  not  to  tears; 
Wherethrough  he  saw  faint  glimmerings 

of  lost  years 


And  perished  loves!     A  cabin  by  a  rill 
Rose  through  the  twilight  on  a  happy 

hill; 
And   there    were   lithe    child-figures   at 

their  play 
That  flashed  and   faded    in  the   dusky 

ray; 
And  near  the  porch  a  gracious  wife  who 

smiled, 
Pure  as  young  Eve  in  Eden,  unbeguiled ! 

Subdued,  yet  thrilled,  'twas  beautiful  to 
see 

With  what  deep  reverence,  and  how  ten- 
derly, 

He  clasped  the  infant  frame  so  slight 
and  fair, 

And  safely  bore  her  up  the  darkening 
stair! 

The  landing  reached,  in  her  arch,  child- 
ish ease, 

Our  Nelly  clasped  his  neck  and  whis- 
pered : 

"Please. 

Won't  you  be  good,  sir  ?    For  I  like  you 
so, 

And  you   are  such  a  big,  strong  man, 
you  know  —  " 

With  pleading  eyes,  her  sweet  face  side- 
wise  set. 

Then    suddenly   his    furrowed     cheeks 
grew  wet 

With    sacred    tears  —  in  whose    divine 
eclipse 

Upon  her  nestling  head  he  pressed  his 
lips 

As  softly  as  a  dreamy  west  wind's  sigh, 

What  time  a  something,  undefined  but 
high, 

As  'twere  a  new  soul,  struggled  to  the 
dawn 

Through  his    raised    eyelids.     Thence, 
the  gloom  withdrawn 

Of  brooding  vengeance  and  unholy  pain, 

He  felt  no  more  the  captive's  galling 
chain ; 

But  only  knew  a  little  child  had  come 

To  smite  despair,  his  taunting  demon, 
dumb ; 


'  Our  Nelly  clasped  his  neck  and  -whispered : 

*  P*l6ciS6 

Won't  you  be  good,  sir?    For  I  like  you  so.' 


THE    CHILDREN.  — WILL   AND   I. 


359 


A  child  whose  marvellous  innocence  en- 
ticed 

All  white  thoughts  back,  that  from  the 
heart  of  Christ 

Fly  dove-like  earthward,  past  our  cloud- 
ed ken, 

Child-life  to  bless,  or  lives  of  child- like 
men ! 

Thus  he  went  his  way, 
An  altered  man  from  that  thrice  blessed 

day; 
His  soul  tuned  ever  to  the  soft  refrain 
Of  words  once  uttered  in  a  sacred  fane : 
"  The  little  children,  let  them  come  to 

me, 
Of  such   as  these  my  realm  of  heaven 

must  be;" 
But  most  he  loved  of  one  dear  child  to 

tell, 
The  child  whose  trust  had  saved  him, 

tender  Nell! 


THE    CHILDREN. 

The  children!  ah,  the  children! 

Your  innocent,  joyous  ones ; 
Your  daughters,  with  souls  of  simshine; 

Your  buoyant  and  laughing  sons. 

Look  long  in  their  happy  faces, 
Drink  love  from  their  sparkling  eyes, 

For  the  wonderful  charm  of  childhood, 
How  soon  it  withers  and  dies ! 

A  few  fast-vanishing  summers, 

A  season  or  twain  of  frost, 
And  you  suddenly  ask,  bewildered 

"  What  is  it  my  heart  hath  lost  ?  " 

Perhaps  you  see  by  the  hearth-stone 
Some  Juno,  stately  and  proud, 

Or  a  Hebe  whose  softly  ambushed  eyes 
Flash  out  from  the  golden  cloud 

Of  lavish  and  beautiful  tresses 
That  wantonly  floating,  stray 

O'er  the  white  of  a  throat  and  bosom 
More  fair  than  blossoms  in  May. 


And  perhaps  you  mark  their  brothers  — 
Young  heroes  who  spurn  the  sod 

With  the  fervor  of  antique  knighthood, 
And  the  air  of  a  Grecian  god ! 

But  where,  ah,  where  are  the  children, 
Your  household  fairies  of  yore  '? 

Alack!    they  are  dead,  and  their  grace 
has  fled 
For  ever  and  ever  more ! 


WILL  AND  I. 

I. 

We  roam  the  hills  together, 
In  the  golden  summer  weather, 

Will  and  I: 
And  the  glowing  sunbeams  bless  us, 
And  the  winds  of  heaven  caress  us, 
As  we  wander  hand  in  hand 
Through  the  blissful  summer  land 
Will  and  I. 


Where  the  tinkling  brooklet  passes 
Through  the  heart  of  dewy  grasses, 

Will  and  I 
Have  heard  the  mock-bird  singing, 
And  the  field-lark  seen  upspringing 
In  his  happy  flight  afar, 
Like  a  tiny  winged  star, 
Will  and  I. 

in. 
Amid  cool  forest  closes 
We  have  plucked  the  wild  wood  roses, 

Will  and  I; 
And  have  twined,  with  tender  duty, 
Sweet  wreaths  to  crown  the  beauty 
Of  the  purest  brows  tbat  shine 
With  a  mother-love  divine 
Will  and  I. 

IV. 

Ah !  thus  we  roam  together, 
Through  the  golden  summer  weather, 
Will  and  I; 


360 


POEMS   FOR    CHILDREN. 


While  the  glowing  sunbeams  bless  us, 
And  the  winds  of  heaven  caress  us  — 
As  we  wander  hand  in  hand 
O'er  the  blissful  summer  land 
Will  and  I. 


JAMIE  AND  HIS  MOTHER  — IN  THE 
TROPICS. 

JAMIE. 
O  mother,  what  country  is  that  I  see 
Far  over  the  stream  and  the  boulders 
gray, 
Where  the  wind-song  pipes,  and  the  cur- 
lews flee, 
And  the  little  brown  squirrels  dance 
and  play 
Through  the  boughs  all  day  ? 

MOTHER. 

Why,  only  a  forest  dark  and  wild, 

A  savage  waste  you  must  shun,  my  child! 

JAMIE. 

O  mother,  what  shapes  are  those  that  sit 
In  the  deep  dun  heart  of  the  woodland 
gloom  ? 
And  what  those  creatures  that  dip  and 
flit, 
Each  crowned  with  a  golden  and  scar- 
let plume, 
O'er  the  tamarind  bloom  ? 

MOTHER. 

Why,  only  the  monkeys  crouched  from 

sight. 
And    paroquets    flashing    in    gay-hued 

flight! 

JAMIE. 

O  mother,  what  children  are  those  that 
run 
So  swift  and  light  '  mid  the  tree-stems 
bare  ? 
They  seem  to  twinkle  from  shade  to  sun, 
And   beckon  me  over  their  sport  to 
share 
In  the  noontide  fair! 


"  Go  not,"  she  cried,  with  a  quivering 

breath : 
"  They  are  Pixies,  child,  and  their  sport 

is  death ! ' ' 

But  there  came  a  morn  when  the  moth- 
er's words 
No  longer  dwelt  in  her  Jamie's  mind  ; 
When  he  followed  the  flight  of  the  whir- 
ring birds 
That  circled  and  soared  on  the  wood- 
land wind, 
And  mother  and  home  were  far  behind. 

Like  one  in  a  golden  dream  was  he, 
Far  over  the  stream  and  the  boulders 
gray; 
And  the  wind-song  pipes,  and  the  cur- 
lews flee, 
And  the  little  brown  squirrels  dance 
and  play 
Through  the  boughs  all  day. 

But  the  clay  grew  dim,  and  the  night- 
shades fell, 
And  there  in  the  dark,  drear,  hungry 
wild, 
In  the  loneliest  nook  of  a  mountain  dell, 
Where    never    a     tender    moonbeam 
smiled, 
Lay  the  weary  child ! 

Like  one  in  an  awful  trance  was  he, 
In  the  deep  dun  heart  of  the  woodland 
gloom ; 
But  a  trance  whose  shadows  can  never 
flee, 
Till  the  mystic  trump  of  the  day  of 
doom 
Breaks  vault  and  tomb. 

And  they  found    him    there  with    his 
bleeding  hands 
So  humbly  crossed  o'er  the  ragged  vest, 
His  spirit  had  gone  to  the  angel  lands, 
But  his   out-worn  body  they  laid  to 

rest 
In  the  last  sad  smile  of  the  gentle  wesi : 
God  guard  his  rest ! 


THE    THREE    COPECKS.  — THE   REASON   WHY. 


361 


THE    THREE  COPECKS. 

Crouched  low  in  a  sordid  chamber, 
With  a  cupboard  of  empty  shelves, 

Half  starved,  and,  alas,  unable 
To  comfort  or  help  themselves, 

Two  children  were  left  forsaken, 
All  orphaned  of  mortal  care: 

But  with  spirits  too  close  to  heaven 
To  be  tainted  by  earth's  despair, 

Alone  in  that  crowded  city, 

Which  shines  like  an  arctic  star, 

By  the  banks  of  the  frozen  Neva, 
In  the  realm  of  the  mighty  Czar. 

Now,  Max  was  an  urchin  of  seven ; 

But  his  delicate  sister,  Leeze, 
With  the- crown  of  her  rippling  ringlets, 

Could    scarcely    have    reached     your 
knees. 

As  he  looked  on  his  sister  weeping, 
And  tortured  by  hunger's  smart, 

A  thought  like  an  angel  entered 
At  the  door  of  his  opened  heart. 

He  wrote  on  a  fragment  of  paper, 
Witli  quivering  hand  and  soul, 

"  Please  send  to  me,   Christ,  three  co- 
pecks, 
To  purchase/or  Leeze  a  roll  !  " 

Then,  rushed  to  a  church,  his  missive 
To  drop,  —  ere  the  vesper  psalms, — 

As  the  surest  mail  bound  Christward, 
In  the  unlocked  box  for  alms ! 

While  he  stepped  upon  tiptoe  to  reach  it, 
One  passed  from  the  priestly  band, 

And  with  smile  like  a  benediction, 
Took  the  note  from  his  eager  hand. 

Having  read  it,  the  good  man's  bosom 
Grew  warm  with  a  holy  joy; 

"Ah!     Christ     may    have     heard    you 
already, 
Will  you  come  to  my  house,  my  boy  ?  " 


"But  not  without  Leeze?"  "No, 
surely, 

We'll  have  a  rare  party  of  three; 
Go,  tell  her  that  somebody's  waiting 

To  welcome  her  home  to  tea." 

That  night  in  the  cosiest  cottage, 
The  orphans  were  safe  at  rest, 

Each  sang  as  a  callow  birdling. 
In  the  depths  of  its  downy  nest. 

And  the  next  Lord's  Hay,  in  his  pulpit, 
The  preacher  so  spake  of  these. 

Stray  lambs  from  the  fold,  which  Jesus 
Had  blessed  by  the  sacred  seas: 

So  recounted  their  guileless  story, 
As  he  held  each  child  by  the  hand, 

That  the  hardest  there  could  feel  it, 
And  the  dullest  could  understand. 

O'er  the  eyes  of  the  listening  fathers 
There  floated  a  gracious  mist ; 

And  oh,  how  the  tender  mothers 
Those  desolate  darlings  kissed ! 

"You  have  given  your  tears,"  said  the 
preacher, 

"  Heart-alms  we  should  none  despise; 
But  the  open  palm,  my  children, 

Is  more  than  the  weeping  eyes  ! " 

Then  followed  a  swift  collection, 
From  the  altar  steps  to  the  door, 

Till  the  sum  of  two  thousand  rubles 
The  vergers  had  counted  o'er. 

So  you  see  that  the  unmailed  letter 
Had  somehow  gone  to  its  goal, 

And  more  than  three  copecks  gathered 
To  purchase  for  Leeze  a  roll ! 


THE  REASOX   WHY. 

I'd  like,  indeed  I'd  like  to  know 
Why  sister  Bell,  who  loved  me  so, 
And  used  to  pet  me  day  and  night, 
And  could  not  bear  me  out  of  sight, 


3(W 


POEMS  FOB   CHILDREN. 


Now  always  looks  so  cross  and  glum, 
If  to  her  side  I  chance  to  come, 
When  that  great,  gawky  man  is  nigh ; 
I'd  like  to  know  the  reason  why? 

That  man!     I  hate  him!  yes,  I  do, 
And,  in  my  place,  you'd  hate  him  too. 
At  first,  (his  common  name  is  John!) 
He  brought  me  boxes  of  bon  bans, 
With  books,  and  dolls,  and  tiny  rings, 
And  lots  on  lots  of  precious  things, 
And  said,  of  all  Miss  Pontoon's  girls, 
Not  one  could  match  my  flowing  curls, 
My  rosy  cheeks  and  rounded  chin, 
With  one  sly  dimple  nestling  in. 
But  now,  he  seems  so  stern  and  high, 
I  scarce  may  catch  his  scornful  eye. 
While  as  for  toys  !  —  he  has  ceased  to 

buy ! 
Tell  me,  who  can,  the  reason  why  ? 

It's  mean!  dear  me!  I'm  sure  it's  mean! 
Did  I  not  run  a  "  go-between  " 
From  him  to  sister  Bell  so  long, 
(Although  1  feared  it  might  be  wrong). 
With   sweetmeats,  flowers,  and  scented 

notes, 
Sealed  by  two  doves  with  curving  throats? 
Of  course  I  thought  him  kind  and  nice. 
But  now,  he's  cold  as  arctic  ice! 
And  more  than  once   I've  heard  him 

say, 
"  That  chit's  forever  in  the  way!  " 
While  Bell  —  she  snaps !    till  1  could 

cry. 
Will  no  one  tell  the  reason  why  ? 

LATEII. 

Think  —  Mr.  John's  my  friend  again. 
('Twas  yesternight  he  made  it  plain), 
For  most  of  our  big  household  gone 
To  Friday's  lecture,  —  left  alone, 
But  Bell  and  I ;  he  came  to  tea, 
(As  now  he's  coming  constantly, ) 
And  spoke  to  me  quite  warmly  —  quite  : 
"  Lizzie,  you  are  not  looking  bright; 
And  since  both  Bell  and  I  are  here, 
Take  Nurse,  and  see  the  circus,  dear; 
I'll  pay,  my  love!  accept  of  this." 


(A  wee  gold  dollar,  and  — a  kiss!) 
"Why   don't    you    come   with   Bell?" 

asked  I; 
He  smiled,  but  would  not  answer  why. 

LATER   STILL. 

Good  news !  good  news !    I'm  almost  mad, 
I  feel  so  pleased,  so  proud  and  glad. 
To-morrow  is  the  wedding-day; 
Papa  will  give  our  Bell  away, 
And  I'm  a  bridesmaid! — oh,  my  dress! 
"  Soft  waves  of  white  silk  loveliness," 
Bell  says,  "  with  grace  in  every  tuck!" 
And  isn't  Brother  John  a  duck  ? 
(I  call  him  Brother  now,  you  see,) 
He  gave  this  dainty  dress  to  me, 
And  said,  his  '"  little  friend  must  look 
Fair  as  a  picture  in  a  book." 
I  answered  gayly,  "  I  shall  try!  " 
What  need  to  ask  the  reason  why  ? 


THE  SILKEN  SHOE. 

"  Hie  on  the  holly-tree  !  "  —  Old  Ballad. 
The  firelight  danced  and  wavered 

In  elvish,  twinkling  glee 
On  the  leaves  and  crimson  berries 

Of  the  great  green  Christmas  Tree ; 

And  the  children  who  gathered  round  it 
Beheld,  with  marvelling  eyes, 

Pendant  from  trunk  and  branches 
How  many  a  precious  prize, 

From  the  shimmer  of  gold  and  silver 
Through  a  purse's  cunning  net, 

To  the  coils  of  a  rippling  necklace, 
That  quivered  with  beads  of  jet. 

But  chiefly  they  gazed  in  wonder 
Where  nickered  strangely  through 

The  topmost  leaves  of  the  holly 
The  sheen  of  a  silken  shoe ! 

And  the  eldest  spake  to  her  father: 
"  I  have  seen  —  yes,  year  by  year, 

On  the  crown  of  our  Christmas  hollies, 
That  small  shoe  glittering  clear; 


THE   SILKEN  SHOE. 


363 


"  But  you  never  have  told  who  owned  it, 

Nor  why  so  loftily  set. 
It  shines  through  the  fadeless  verdure, 

You  never  have  told  us  yet! " 

'Twas  then  that  the  museful  father 

In  slow  sad  accents  said, 
While  the  firelight  hovered  eerily 

About  his  downcast  head: 


"  My  children  —  you  had  a  sister; 

(It  was  long,  long,  long  ago), 
She  came  like  an  Eden  rosebud 

'Mid  the  dreariest  winter  snow, 

"  And  for  four  sweet  seasons  blossomed 
To  cheer  our  hearts  and  hearth, 

When  the  song  of  the  Bethlehem  angels 
Lured  her  away  from  earth  — 


"  My  shoe,  papa,  please  hang  it 
Once  more  on  the  holly  bough. 


"  For  again  'twas  the  time  of  Christmas, 
As  she  lay  with  laboring  breath ; 

But —  our  minds  were  blinded  strangely, 
And  we  did  not  dream  of  death. 

"A  little  before  she  left  us, 
We  had  deftly  raised  to  view, 

On  the  topmost  branch  of  the  holly 
Ton  glimmering,  tiny  shoe ; 

"  We  knew  that  no  toy  would  please  her 
Like  a  shoe  so  fair  and  neat, 

To  fold,  with  its  soft  caressing 
Her  delicate,  sylph-like  feet ! 

"  Truly,  a  smile  like  a  sunbeam 
Brightened  her  eyes  of  blue, 

And  once  —  twice  —  thrice  —  she  tested 
The  charm  of  her  fairy  shoe ! 


"  Ah !  then  the  bright  smile  flickered, 

Faded,  and  drooped  away, 
As  faintly,  in  tones  that  faltered, 

I  heard  our  darling  say : 

"  '  My  shoe,  papa,  please  hang  it 
Once  more  on  the  holly  bough, 

Just  where  I  am  sure  to  see  it, 
When  I  wake  —  an  hour  from  now. 

' '  But  alas !  she  never  wakened ! 

Close  shut  were  the  eyes  of  blue ; 
Whose  last  faint  gleam  had  fondled 

The  curves  of  that  dainty  shoe. 

"Ah,  children,  you  understand  me; 

Your  eyes  are  brimmed  with  dew, 
As  they  watch  on  the  Christmas  holly 

The  sheen  of  a  silken  shoe." 


36-4 


POEMS   FOE   CHILDREN. 


THE  BLACK  DESTIUEIi. 
A  BALLAD   OF   THE  THIRD   CRUSADE. 

Fiest  *mid  the  lion  Richard's  host, 
sir  Ayiner  fought  in  Holy  Land ; 

And  they  loved  him  well  for  his  honest 
heart, 
And  they  feared,  for  his  stalwart  hand. 

Once  on  a  glorious  battle  eve, 

The  Paynim  legions  wildly  flying. 

Sir  Ayrner    paused  from    his  work    of 
blood, 
Where  an  eastern  knight  lay  dying. 

He  was  the  latest  guard  of  one. 

The  Soldan's  fair  and  favorite  bride. 
And  there  on  the  trampled  and  crimson 
sod 

She  moaned  by  the  warrior's  side. 

No  strength  had  he  to  shield  his  charge; 

But  mild  the  Christian  victor's  face: 
And  the  lady  knew,  as  she  gazed  thereon. 

That  his  mercy  would  grant  her  grace. 

The  Paynim  died:  "  I  am  thy  guide,*' 
The  brave  Sir  Aymer  softly  said : 

'•  By  my  fathers  faith  thou  art  safe  from 
scaith, 
Wheresoever  thou  would' st  be  led.'' 

True  to  his  word,  through  friend,  through 
foe, 
He  bore  the  lady  fast  and  far. 
Till  the  hostile  sheen  of  the   Moslem 

spears 
Flashed  under  the  evening  star. 

The  Soldan's  self  with  speechless  joy. 
With  glistening  eyes  and  bated  breath, 

The  queen  of  his  house  and  heart  em- 
braced. 
As  if  claiming  his  Love  from  death ! 

'"Xow.   Christian   knight,  by  this  pure 
light, 

Xo  vain  nor  empty  thanks  are  mine; 
So.   name  thee  the  guerdon  a  king  may 
grant. 
And  believe  me.  it  shall  be  thine." 


"  Xo  guerdon,  prince,  for  simple  ruth 
The  Christian  warrior  deigns  to  take; 

He   has   vowed  to   rescue  the  lorn  and 
weak, 
For  his  own  sweet  lady's  sake.' 

'•  All  proofs  of  zeal  the  grateful  feel, 
Surely,  fair  knight,  thou  would' st  not 
shun? 
An  honored  guest,  thou  wilt  tarry  and 
rest, 
At  least  till  the  morrow's  sun  '?  " 

Thus,  in  the  Soldan's  tent  he  stayed  — 
What  time  the  queen  with  passionate 
eyes. 
Struck   blind   to   the  harem's'  splendor, 
dreamed 
Of  his  beauty  with  love-sick  sighs : 

And  ere  that  morrow's  sun  had  set, 
With  scarce  a  blush  her  love  she  told; 

But  Sir  Aymer  hearkened  with  haughty 
mien. 
And  the  words  that  he  spake  were  cold. 

Theii    flushed  the    imperious    forehead 
high, 

A  dark  flame  glittered  in  her  eyes, 
And  the  hate  of  the  deadly  orient  quelled 

The  breath  of  her  tender  sighs. 

"Sir  knight,  enough:  thou  scorn' st  my 
love ! 
But  ere  thou  goest.  take  instead 
This  marvellous  steed    of  the  jet-black 
breed, 
In  the  land  of  the  Magi  bred. 

ki  O  stern  in  fight!  O  swift  in  flight! 

This  matchless  steed  will    serve  thee 
well, 
Whether  thy  lure  be  a  lady's  bower, 

Or  the  vanward  war-trump's  swell." 

He  took  the  gift,  he  bowed  him  low. 

And    gained  tire    Christian   camp   at 
noun: 
"  O  courser  of  might  in  strife  or  flight !" 

Quoth  lie.  "•  1  shall  prove  thee  soon." 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF  LITTLE  BOB  BONNYFACE. 


365 


The  conflict  joins;  the  hosts  are  hot; 
That     gallant     Destrier     "holds    his 
own ;' ' 
Aghast  at   the  rush    of    his   whirlwind 
course, 
"Whole  legions  are  overthrown. 

In  twice  three  mortal  combats  niore 
The  same  fell  ruin  marked  his  path, 

Till  the  Saracens  deemed,  as  their  life- 
blood  streamed, 
'Twas  a  fiend  of  hell  in  his  wrath. 

But  once,  alas!  alas!  the  day! 

The  Moslem's  sudden  war-cry  rose, 
And  the  knight  bis  "Ave"  forgot  to 
say, 

Ere  he  hastened  to  meet  his  foes. 

St.  Paul!  what  wizard  spell  is  this  ? 
The   Destrier  spurns  the  hands  that 
guide, 
And  full  on  the  front  of  the  Christian 
host 
Sweeps  back  through  the  battle  tide. 

Gramercy!  'twas  a  dreadful  sight 
Which  met  the  gathering  thousands 
there, 
When  the  war-horse  charged  like  a  blaz- 
ing star, 
Through  a  halo  of  blood-red  air. 

With  bristling  mane,  and  hot  disdain 
Against  the  mail-clad  lines  he  came; 

And  his  red  orbs  burned  with  a  frenzied 
ire, 
And  his  nostrils  darted  flame. 

Thus  raging  from  the  heathen  van, 
Strange  steed  and  awful  rider  rushed, 

And    the  souls    of    the  boldest  shrank 
appalled, 
And  the  wildest  voice  was  hushed ; 

Till  swift  towards  King  Eichard's  camp 
The  fiery-f  ronted  portent  bore, 

From  the  fetlock  firm  to  the  horrent  crest 
All  reekins:  with  Christian  irore. 


There,  on  a  sudden  paused  the  barb, 
Still,  as  if  carved  in  marble  black, 

And  from  silent  knight  and  terrible  steed 
The  pale  throng  shuddered  back : 

But  now  from  out  the  trembling  crowd 
A  priest  with  holy  water  passed, 

He  sprinkled   the  knight,  he  sprinkled 
the  steed 
With  the  pure  lymph  free  and  fast : 

When  lo !  the  fatal  charm  dissolved  — 
Prone,  with  a  hollow,  rattling  sound 

In  the  clasp  of  his  unscathed  armor,  fell 
The  knight  to  the  bloody  ground : 

They  loosed  his  hauberk  and  his  helm, 
But  dead  and  wan  his  eyeballs  shone, 

As    if    they  had    gazed  on  a  nameless 
dread 
Which  had  frozen  their  life  to  stone ! 

They  felt  his  pulseless  heart,  his  brow 
Dim  with    the    death-shade's    mystic 
gloom, 
While  ruthless  and  stern  are  the  looks 
they  turn 
On  the  demon  that  wrought  his  doom. 

But  pallid  as  a  waning  cloud 

Athwart  the  summer  moon-disc  blown, 
The  shadowy  form  of  a  demon  steed 

In  the  ghost-like  eve  had  grown : 

Only  —  his  supernatural  eyes 
One  moment  shot  a  vengeful  spark, 

Ere    the    glimmering    Syrian    twilight 
closed 
On  the  steps  of  the  sudden  dark. 


THE    ADVENTURES    OF   LITTLE    BOB 
BOXNYFACE. 

Little  Bob  Bonnyface  went  out  one 

day 
Into  his  father's  fields  to  play; 
Twas  a  morn   undp-rkened   by  mist  or 

cloud, 


366 


POEMS   FOR    CHILDREN. 


With    the    thrush    and    the    blackbird 

piping  loud ; 
The  locust,  deep  in  the  pine-tree  wood. 
Shrilled,  as  only  a  locust  could  ; 
And   borne  on   the  waft   of  a  summer 

breeze, 
Swarmed  by  him  an  army  of  honey-bees. 
Delighted  he  saw,  delighted  he  heard 
The   morn,  the  bees,  and  the  singing 

bird; 
He  also  sang,  as  he  roamed  through  the 

clover, 
Feeling  so  jolly,  and  free  all  over! 

But  Bob  —  I  must  tell  you  the  honest 

truth  — 
Was  a  terribly  mischievous  thoughtless 

youth ; 
Whatever  he  wanted  to  do  or  say. 
He  did  and  he  said  in  the  boldest  way, 
Xot  seeming  to  ponder,  even  to  care 
How  naughty  his  words  or  his  actions 

were; 
For  the  only  aim  of  this  reckless  elf 
Was  —  everywhere,  always,  to  please  — 

himself ! 

'Twas  to  please  himself,  without  license 
or  leave 

Nor  a  thought  how  his  poor  sick  moth- 
er might  grieve, 

If  she  missed  too  long,  on  her  suffering 
bed, 

The  golden  gleam  of  his  curly  head. 

That  he  left  his  home  through  the  fields 
to  stray, 

On  that  sunny  and  beautiful  summer's 
day, 

As  the  air  breathed  over  him.  blithe- 
some, but  calm. 

All  laden  with  fragrance  and  meadow- 
balm. 

And  the  sunshine  warmed  his  young 
blood  through, 

While  it  dazzled  and  danced  from  the 
stainless  blue. 

Bob  felt  that  a  jollity,  wholesome  and 
sweet, 

Possessed  him  wholly,  from  head  to  feet. 


He  looked  around,  and  what  should  his 

eye 
In  an  open  space  'mid  the  clover  spy, 
But  an  ant-hole,  wrought  in  the  sandy 

drouth. 
Out  of  its  busy,  populous  mouth, 
The  dwarfish  tenants  —  an  endless  train, 
Emerging,  covered  the  tiny  plain; 
Eastward     and     westward,    north    and 

south. 
They  toiled,    with  a  constant   will,   to 

gain 
The  fairy  stores  of  their  winter's  grain; 
Yet  Bob  in  his  recklessness  deemed   it 

fun 
The  ants  and  their  mansion  to  overrun. 
By  millions  down  in  the  crumbling  sod 
The    frightened     creatures    he    swiftly 

trod; 
Filled  up  with  dust,  and   grasses,  and 

stone, 
The  entrance-ways  to  their  home,  o'er- 

thrown 
Xot  one  of  the  innocent  horde,  not  one, 
Was  left  to  toil  in  the  laughing  sun  — 
But  still  Bob  shouted,  and  thought  it  — 

fun ! 

Xext  on  his  wandering  way  he  came 
To  a  furze-bush,  gleaming  like   yellow 

flame ; 
A  spider  as  ugly  and  fierce  as  sin, 
Had  spread  the  snares  of  his  web  there- 
in; 
But  —  cunning  and  sly  —  as  Bob  rushed 

up, 
He  hid  himself  deep  in  a  thistle's  cup, 
Leaving  above,  in  his  worship's  stead, 
A    bee,   caught    fast    in    his    poisoned 
thread! 

Now,  here  was  a  chance  for   Bobby  to 

free 
From  his  pain  and  prison  this  harmless 

bee : 
But  bless  you!  no!  'twas  a  finer  thing 
He  thought,  to  pierce  liim  from  wing  to 

wing: 
On  a  pin's  keen  point  to  whirl  him  high, 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF  LITTLE  BOB  BONNYFAOE. 


307 


And  behold  the  quivering  insect  die, 
This,  too,  when  the  barbarous  act  was 

done, 
Seemed  nothing  to  Bob  but  a  moment's 

—  fun. 

More  gleeful    than   ever,    Bob   onward 

pressed ; 
In  the  wayside  thickets  he  found  a  nest, 
The   eggs   half    hatched;    but  he   took 

them  out, 
And  with  rude  hand  scattered  them  all 

about, 
Laughing    to    see    how    the    egg-shells 

broke. 
But  hey!  what's  this  ?  with  a  buffeting 

stroke, 
The  wings  of  the  outraged  mother-bird 
(Who  down  from  her  neighboring  perch 

had  whirred, ) 
So  smartly  smote  him  on  forehead  and 

eyes, 
That    Bobby   in   his   turn   trembling  — 

flies! 

(Don't  you  think  that  his  was  a  wretch- 
ed plight  ? 

Just  picture  a  boy  from  a  bird  in  flight ! 

His  heart  and  his  knee-joints  weak  with 
fright.) 

But  soon  recovered,  he  trudged  along, 
Humming  the  words  of  a  ballad-song, 
Till  reaching  a  place  where  the  grasses 

bred 
Tall  "hoppers"  in  thousands,  he  staid 

his  tread, 
And   cunningly  crouching,  as  quick  as 

thought, 
A   "grandfather    hopper"    was    deftly 

caught. 
Bob  squeezed  his  body,  and  pulled  his 

thighs, 
And    poked    a   straw    in    his    winking 

eyes; 
Then,  with  shrill   laughter,  and  merry 

scoff, 
He  wrenched  both  legs  of  the  creature 

off; 


And  next  (could  the  rascal  have  had  a 

heart  ?) 
Its   head  from  the  body  was  snatched 

apart, 
Till,  a  pitiful  image  of  death  and  dearth, 
Its  carcass  lay  on  the  verdant  earth! 

I  haven't  the  leisure  to  stop  and  tell 

What  other  pains  and  evils  befell 

The  defenceless   tenants   of   wood  and 

dell; 
All  wrought   by  an  urchin's  uncurbed 

will, 
At  length  as  an  evening   fair  and  still, 
Shone  over  the  wood,  Bob  strolled  be- 
yond 
The  wooded  glades  to  a  quiet  pond. 
The    home    of    eels,    mud-fishes,    and 

things 
Half  frog,   half   fish,   all   covered  with 

stings, 
And  scaly  armor,  as  bright  as  brass ; 
Then  and  there,  reader,  it  came  to  pass 
That  a  terrapin,  lazily  crawling  o'er 
The  moistened  ways  of  its  native  shore, 
Bob  shrewdly  captured  —  he  turned  his 

back 
Heedfully  down  on  the  sandy  track, 
And  —  need  we  say  it  ?  —  at  once  began 
To  practise  as  ever,  his  teasing  plan. 
He  pinched  the   flesh   of  the   terrapin 

sore 
Racked  it  behind,  and  racked  it  before; 
And  strove — tho'  just  with  a  touch  of 

awe, 
The  reptile' s  head  from  its  shell  to  draw. 
When    hark!    the   sound    of  a   vicious 


snap 


And  the  juvenile's  fingers  were  in  a  trap 
As  ruthless   as   fate,   and    as  sharp   as 

steel; 
Then,     followed     a     piteous     discord! 

Squeal, 
Bellow,  and  shriek,  the  echoes  around, 
Woke  up  from  the  startled  wave  and 

ground. 
Bob  struggled  and  panted,  kicked   and 

cried, 
Yet,  his  enemy's  hold  all  efforts  defied; 


368 


POEMS   FOR    CHILDREN. 


He  thought  to  rise,  but  he  would  not  do 

it, 
For  fear  that  his  mangled  flesh  might 

rue  it; 
And    still    more   agonized,   angry,   and 

loud, 
His  yells  went  up  to  a  whirling  cloud, 
Which     in    a    moment    from    out    the 

blue, 
(Or  such  teas  his  fancy),  darker  grew, 
Whence  peered  a  head  and  a  face  to 

fear ; 
But  what  shall   I  say  of  the  monster's 

leer, 
His  huge  mouth  stretching  from  ear  to 

ear  ? 

"You   have   tortured,*'    (it  said)    "and 

torn  all  day 
God's    helpless    creatures     in    wanton 

play; 
Now,  learn,  oh!  cruel  and  coward  elf! 
A  useful  lesson  of  pain,  yourself ! 
Does  it  burn  and  sting  to  the  deepest 

nerve  ? 
What  less  do  your  brutal  deeds  deserve  ? 
How!    groaning  again!   for   shame!    be 

done! 
You    only    tortured,     you    know,  —  in 

fun!" 


When    he  gained    from   the   terrapin's 

clutch  release 
While  resting,  that  night,  on  his  couch 

in  peace, 
There  softly  dawned  thro'  the  twilight 

gloom, 
A    face    more    fair   than    a  white-rose 

bloom ; 
And  a  voice  that  seemed  like  the  under 

speech 
Of  the  waters  that  swoon  on  a  breezeless 

beach, 
Whispered  as  low  as  low  could  be ; 
"Look  up!  I  charge  thee!  and  worship 

me; 
And    yet  not    me,    but    the    Master  — 

Christ ! 


' '  My  name  is  Pity !  —  I  am  enticed 
From  even  the   Heaven  of   Heavens  to 

bring 
Soft  balms  for  mortal  suffering ; 
And  whosoever  the  frailest  thing 
With  strength  within  it  to  feel  or  love, 
Wounds      here.  —  he     is     torturing    me 

above ; 
And    worse  —  for    the    pangs    of    that 

anguish  dart 
Through  mine,  to  the  tender  Saviour's 

heart! " 

Silence!  —  but  just  as  sleep  was  won, 
And  over  the  boy's  bright  eyes  of  brown. 
The  delicate  lashes  came  drooping  down. 
Thro'   the   silvery  eddies  of  moonlight 

mist, 
There   stole    the   shadow   of    lips    that 

kissed 
The  stain  from  the  childish  soul  away, 
That  sadly   sinning,   had   deemed   it  — 

play ! 


KISS  31 E,  KATIE! 

Katie,  Katie,  little  Katie! 
Mouth  of  rose  and  eyes  of  blue, 
(Eyes  that  look  one  frankly  through!) 
When  I'm  absent  don't  you  miss  me  ? 
Now  I'm  near  you,  come  and  kiss  me ! 
Katie,  little  Katie,  kiss  me ! 
Katie,  do! 

Katie,  Katie,  pretty  Katie ! 
Prettier  far  than  Jane  or  Lu, 
Madge  or  Margaret,  Maud  or  Prue ; 
Graceful  as  a  spring-born  fairy. 
Tuneful  as  your  pet  canary — 
Katie,  pretty  Katie,  kiss  me ! 
Katie,  do! 

Katie,  sly,  deceptive  Katie ! 
If  you  fly  me  I'll  pursue. 
(What  though  corns  or  gout  should  rue!) 
Then,  if  I  can  overmatch  you, 
Running  fast  can  clasp  and  catch  you, 
Captured  Katie,  won't  you  kiss  me  ? 
Katie,  do! 


/r 


'Katie,  pretty  Katie,  kiss  me." 


CAGED.  — LITTLE  LOTTIE'S    GRIEVANCE. 


369 


Katie,  mute,  day-dreaming  Katie, 
If  I  tell  your  thoughts  to  you, 
Guess  your  dreams  and  make  them  true, 
Won't  you  cease  your  coy  defiance, 
Vanquished  by  such  wondrous  science — 
Won't  you  kiss  me,  Katie  darling  ? 
Katie,  do! 

Katie,  captious  little  Katie! 
Why  that  quickly  tapping  shoe, 
Keady  shrug  and  scornful  moue  f 
Can  it  be  you  mean  to  scout  me  ? 
Just  because  I'm  grayish,  flout  me  ? 
Are  you  muttering,  '"Kiss  him!  sevek! 
No,  I  can't !  and  no,  I  won't  !  " 
O,  you  petulant,  changeful  Katie! 
Katie,  don't  ! 


CAGED. 


You  think  he  sings  a  gladsome  song ! 

Ah,  well,  he  sings  !  but  only  see 
How  oft  on  glossy  neck  and  breast 

His  bright  head  droops  despondingly; 
Or  note  the  restless,  eager  bird 
When  a/ree  minstrel's  voice  is  heard. 

You  think  because  he  pecks  his  grain 
With  vigorous  mien  and  active  bill, 

This  long  captivity  has  trained 
To  tame  content  his  roving  will. 

But  watch,  as  some  wild  pinion  flies, 

Flashed    near   his  cage,   from   summer 
skies : 

He  lifts  his  crest,  his  eyes  dilate 
To  yearning  orbs  of  passionate  fire ; 

His  whole  small  body  seems  to  thrill, 
And  vibrate  to  the  heart's  desire: 

The  deathless  wish  once  more  to  roam 

The  broad  blue  heaven  God  made  his 
home. 

Mark,  next,  the  weary  pant,  the  sigh 
Of  hope  deferred,  that  follows  then; 

Perchance  your  captive's  pain  is  deep 
As  that  which  haunts  imprisoned  men, 

Pining  behind  their  cruel  bars 

For  sunlight  or  the  holy  stars. 


Come !  ope  the  door !  he  owns  a  soul 
As  tender,  sensitive  and  fine 

As  yours  or  mine  —  for  aught  v:e  know, 
And  dowered  with  rights  scarce  less 
Divine ; 

Come !  let  him  choose,  at  least,  between 

God's  azure  and  yon  gilded  screen! 

Freed!  yet  he  flies  not!  —  Wait!  —  his 
brain 
Is  dazed !  —  he  comprehends  not  yet 
How  earnest  is  your  proffered  boon,  — 

How  surely  his  the  glorious  debt 
Of  freedom  and  all  free-born  things : 
Wait!  —  ha!     he    prunes    his    doubtful 
wings. 

Hops,  perch  by  perch,  to  gain  the  door; 

Then,  as  if  first  conviction  came, 
Full-faced,    and    whispered,    "thou  art 
free!" 

He  darts  without,  a  winged  flame, 
And  soon  from  far,  fair  eloudlaud  floats 
The  rapture  of  his  grateful  notes! 


LITTLE    LOTTIE'S   GRIEVANCE. 

Mamma's  in  heaven!  and  so,  you  see 
My  sister  Bet's  mamma  to  me. 
Oh!  yes,  I  love  her!  —  that's  to  say, 
I  love  her  well  the  whole  bright  day ; 
For  Sis  is  kind  as  kind  can  be, 
Until,  indeed  we've  finished  tea  — 
Then  (why  did  God  make  ugly  night  ?  ) 
She  never,  never  treats  me  right, 
But  always  says,  "  Xow,  sleepy  head, 
'  Tis  getting  late !  come  up  to  bed ! '  ' 

Just  when  the  others,  Fred  and  Fay, 
Dolly  and  Dick,  are  keen  for  play  — 
Card-houses,  puzzles,  painted  blocks, 
Cat-corner,  and  pert  Jack-in-the-box  — 
I  must  (it's  that  bad  gas,  I  think, 
That  makes  me  somehow  seem  to  wink!) 
Must  leave  them  all  to  seek  the  gloom 
Of  sister  Bet's  close-curtained  room, 
Put  on  that  long  stiff  gown  I  hate, 
And  go  to  bed  —  oh,  dear!  at  eight! 


370 


POEMS  FOB   CHILDREN. 


Now,  is  it  fair  that  I  who  stand 
Taller  than  Dolly  by  a  hand, 
(1*11  not  believe,  howe'er  'tis  told. 
That  cousin  Doll  is  ten  years  old ! 
And  just  because  I'm  only  seven, 
Should  be  so  teased,  yes,  almost  driven, 
Soon  as  I've  supped  my  milk  and  bread, 
To  that  old  drowsy,  frowsy  bed  ? 
I've  lain  between  the  dusky  posts, 
And  shivered  when  I  thought  of  ghosts : 
Or  else  have  grown  so  mad,  you  know, 
To  hear  those  laughing  romps  below, 
While  there     I   yawned   and   stretched 

(poor  me!) 
With  one  dim  lamp  for  company. 
I've  longed  for  courage  just  to  dare 
Dress  softly — then  trip  down  the  stair, 
And  on  the  parlor  pop  my  head 
With  "  No,  I  will  not  stay  abed!  " 

I'll  do  it  yet,  all  quick  and  bold, 
Xo  matter  how  our  Bet  may  scold. 
For,  oh!  I'm  sure  it  can't  be  right, 
To  keep  me  here  each  dismal  night, 
Half  scared  by  shadows  grimly  tall 
That  dance  along  the  cheerless  wall, 
Or  by  the  wind,  with  fingers  chill. 
Shaking  the  worn-out  window-sill 
One  might  as  well  be  sick  or  dead, 
As  sent  by  eight  o'clock  to  bed! 


A    NEW    VERSION    OF    WHY    THE 
ROBIN'S  BREAST  IS  RED. 

Know  you  why  the  robin's  breast 
Gleameth  of  a  dusky  red, 
Like  the  lustre  mid  the  stars 
Of  the  potent  planet  Mars  ? 
'Tis  —  a  monkish  myth  has  said  — 
Owing  to  his  cordial  heart; 
For,  long  since,  he  took  the  part 
Of  those  hapless  children,  sent 
Hadean-ward  for  punishment ; 
And.  to  cpiench  the  fierce  desire, 
Bred  in  them  by  ruthless  fire, 
Brought  on  tiny  bill  and  wing, 
Water  from  some  earthly  spring, 


Which  in  misty  droplets  fell 
O'er  their  dwelling  of  unrest, 
While  the  sufferer's  faces  grew 
Softer  'neath  the  healing  dew! 

But,  too  far  within  that  hell 
Venturing,  some  malicious  fiend, 
A  small  devil  hardly  weaned, 
Seized  bold  Bobin  in  his  claw. 
Striving  thro'  the  flames  to  draw 
His  poor  body,  until  fled 
Sight  of  eyes  and  sense  of  head, 
Scorched  he  lay  and  almost  dead ! 

Then,  a  child  whose  tongue  and  brow, 
Bobin' s  help  had  cooled  but  now, 
Clutched  the  baby-fiend  in  ire. 
And  in  gulfs  of  his  own  fire 
Soused  the  vile  misshapen  elf. 

Fluttering  upwards,  scarce  himself, 
After  all  the  pain  and  fear 
Of  his  horrid  sojourn  there 
In  that  realm  of  flame  and  smoke, 
Lo!  earth's  happy  sunlight  broke 
On  the  bird's  dazed  view  at  last; 
But  the  ordeal  he  had  passed 
Left  a  flame-spot  widely  spread 
Where  the  wind-blown  feathers  part 
Just  above  his  loyal  heart. 
So  the  robin's  breast  is  red! 


THE    LITTLE    SAIXT. 

At  the  calm  matin  hour 

1  see  her  bend  in  prayer. 
As  bends  a  virgin  flower 

Kissed  by  the  summer  air: 
Oh,  meek  her  downcast  eyes ! 

But  the  sweet  lips  wear  a  smile; 
How  hard  our  little  angel  tries 

To  be  serious  all  the  while ! 

I  tell  her  'tis  not  right 

To  be  half-grave,  half-gay, 

Imploring  in  Heaven's  sight 
A  blessing  on  the  day; 


A   NEW  PHILOSOPHY.  — BABY'S  FIRST  WORD. 


371 


She  hears  and  looks  devout  — 
Although  it  gives  her  pain; 

Still,  when  the  ritual's  almost  out 
She's  sure  —  to  smile  again! 

She  shocks  her  maiden  aunt, 

Who  thinks  it  a  disgrace 
That,  do  her  best,  she  can't 

Give  her  a  solemn  face ; 
She'll  scold  and  rate  and  fume, 

And  lecture  hour  by  hour, 
Until  she  makes  the  very  room 

Look  passionate  and  sour ! 

Alack,  't  is  all  in  vain! 

Soon  as  the  sermon's  done 
My  fairy  blooms  again, 

Like  a  rose-bud  in  the  sun. 
I  cannot  damp  her  mirth! 

I  will  not  check  her  play ; 
Is  guileless  joy  so  rife  on  earth, 

Hers  shall  not  have  full  sway  ? 

I  asked  her  yester  night, 

Why,  when  her  prayer  was  made, 
Her  brow  of  cordial  light 

Scarce  caught  a  serious  shade. 
"Father"  she  said,  "you  love 

Better  to  meet  me  glad  ; 
And  so  I  thought  the  Christ  above 

Might  grieve  to  see  me  —  sac?  /  " 


A     NEW      PHILOSOPHY;       OP,      STAR 
SHOWERS   EXPLAINED. 

Oxe  luminous  night  in  winter, 

All  crystal  clear  and  still, 
A  band  of  wondering  children 

Were  grouped  by  the  window  sill. 

The  window  looked  out  northward, 
Where  through  the  tranquil  hours 

The  stars  kept  falling,  falling, 
In  a  ceaseless  shine  of  showers. 

Ah!  beautiful  sight!  those  children!  — 
As  they  gazed  on  the  magic  skies, 

With  their  tiny  hands  uplifted, 
And    their  large,   bright,   marvelling 

eyes. 


"What  is  it  ?  "  asked  curly  Alfred, 

Of  his  elder  brother,  Gus ; 
"  Does  yon  think  it  is  coming  nearer  ? 

If  it  comes,  can  it  fall  on  us  ?  " 

"  No,  stupid !  "  (in  tones  determined, ) 
But  soon  he  was  touched  by  doubt, 

And     wished,    as     the     flames    waxed 
brighter, 
Somebody  would  put  them  out ! 

For,  indeed,  the  radiant  sparkles 
Now  poured  from  a  grander  height : 

And  filled  like  a  conflagration, 
The  hollows  and  gulfs  of  night ! 

Till  at  last  they  all  grew  frightened ; 

And  the  small  dark  heads  and  light 
Were  in  a  closer  circle, 

While  still  they  watched  the  night ! 

All  but  one  sturdy  urchin, 

The  smallest  and  shrewdest  there, 
Whose  eyes  like  a  pert  cock  robin's. 

Turned  up  on  the  northward  glare, 

As  he  lisped,  with  an  air  quite  final, 
And    with    somewhat    of    scorn    and 
scoff: 

"IV s  the  Fourth  of  July  up  yonder, 
And  the  wockets  is  whizzing  off!  " 


BABY'S  FIRST   WORD. 

We  watched  our  baby  day  by  day, 

With  earnest  expectation, 
To  hear  his  infant  lips  unclose 

In  vague  articulation. 

But  weeks,  nay  weary  months,  passed  on ; 

His  last  wee  tooth  had  broken 
From  rosy  gums,  yet  not  a  word, 

Not  one  had  baby  spoken. 

"  O  Bol!"  I  cried,  "  it  cannot  be 

A  child  so  quick  and  clever. 
Who  hears  ('tis  plain  he  hears  our  talk), 

Should  thus  stay  dumb  forever!" 


372 


POEMS   FOR    CHILDREN. 


Rol  answered  sharply,  vexed  and  red, 
"  What  wretched  nonsense,  Jenny! 

I  never  could  have  dreamed,  my  dear, 
You'd  prate  like  such  a  ninny!  " 

( Tes,  that's  the  term,  I  must  confess, 
By  which,  with  judgment  narrow, 

He  dared  for  once,  just  once,  you  know, 
To  call  his  "winsome  marrow.") 

But  what  cared  I  ?  since  as  I  live, 

True  as  my  name  is  Jenny, 
From  out  the  cradle  clear  and  loud, 

Came  back  the  bad  word  "  Ninny!  " 

Thence  uprose  baby  all  aglee, 
His  peaceful  slumbers  routed, 

And  thrice  that  naughty,  naughty  word 
He  spoke,  nay,  almost  shouted! 

Rol,  glancing  at  my  startled  eyes, 
His  mirth  could  scarcely  smother. 

But  oh!  to  think  the  rogue's  first  word 
Should  thus  abuse  his  mother! 


THE   CHAMELEON. 

I  know  that  I'm  like,  yet  I  am  not,  a 

snake ! 
'Tis  true  that  I  glisten  by    boll    and 

by  brake, 
That  I  dart  out  and  in,  can  glide,  quiver 

and  coil 
As  swift  as  the  lightning,  but  softer  than 

oil, 
Yet  a  creature  more  innocent  never  was 

drawn 
From  the  gray  of  cool  shadows  to  bask 

in  the  dawn ! 

If  I  pause  by  a  brook  the  rock-currents 
divide, 

I  grow  silvery-white  as  the  foam  of  its 
tide  ; 

If  'mid  dew-freshened  meadows  at  sun- 
rise I  pass, 

There's  a  shaft  of  pure  emerald  shot 
through  the  grass. 


When  to  gay  garden-closes  I  joyfully  turn, 
'Tis  mine  with  all  hues,  of  their  roses  to 

burn ; 
I   reflect  each    bright   blush    that    the 

petals  have  won 
Of  their  young  virgin-flowers  from  the 

kiss  of  the  sun. 
My  skin's  a  clear  mirror,  a  glass  of  the 

elves, 
In  which  all  lovely  tints  can  smile  back 

on  themselves! 
Stranger  still !  for  on  ugliness  mirrored 

therein, 
Though  it  tarnish  a  moment,  this  magi- 
cal skin, 
On  the  dark  and  uncouth  some  slight 

beauty's  bestowed; 
Why,  even  that  dull  little  hunchback, 

the  toad, 
I  endow  with  faint  outlines  of  sweetness 

and  grace, 
While  the  newt,  glancing  down  on  his 

lop-sided  face, 
Reflected,  —  in  pity , —  by  softened   de- 
grees, 
Almost  dreams  he  was  formed  by  kind 

Nature  to  please ! 

Ah,  therefore,  sweet  maiden,  shrink  not 
when  you  see 

My  lithe  body  reposing  by  streamlet  or 
tree ; 

But  kneel  down  where  I  rest,  and  all 
mellowed  behold 

Your  eyes  of  deep  blue,  and  your  ring- 
lets of  gold, 

In  my  miniature  mirror,  my  glass  of  the 
elves, 

Wherein  all  lovely  things  can  smile  back 
on  themselves! 


FLYING  FURZE. 

Airily,  fairily,  over  the  meadows, 
Over  the  broom-grasses  waving  and  gay, 
O !   see  how  it  shimmers, 
How  wavers  and  glimmers, 
Flying,  and  flying  away. 


THE   NEW  SISTEB.—HOP,    SKIP,   AND   JUMP. 


373 


Hastefully,  wastef ully,  over  the  copses, 
Over  the  hedge-rows  in  scattered  array, 
See,  see  how  'tis  curling 
And  twinkling  and  whirling, 
Ever  and  ever  away ! 

Merrily,  cheerily,  down  the  far  verges, 
Verges  of  fields  growing  misty  and  gray, 
Still,  still  how  it  shimmers, 
Grows  fainter  and  glimmers. 
Shimmers,  and  glimmers  away ! 


Phil. 

Pete. 
Phil. 
Pete. 

Phil. 

Pete. 

Phil. 
Pete. 
Phil. 
Pete. 
Phil. 

Pete. 


Phil. 
Pete. 


Phil. 
Pete. 

Phil. 


Pete. 
Phil. 


THE  NEW  SISTER. 

Say,  Pete,  do  you  like  her  ? 

Like !  love  her  you  mean ! 

Ain't  she  jolly  and  red  ? 

And  hurrah  for  her!  just  think  of 
her  head ! 

As  big  as  a  pippin,  and  round  as 
a  bullet ! 

And  bald !  oh !  as  bald  as  a  newly- 
plucked  pullet! 

Did  you  look  at  her  eyes  too  ? 

Of  course ;  they  are  blue. 

Not  a  bit  of  it  — black! 

Blue,  I  tell  you  —  ask  Jack! 

Jack!  I've  eyes   of  my  own  that 
see  better  than  his ! 

Brag  on !  but  for  once  they  have 
led  you  amiss. 

Baby's  eyes  are  blue  —  very! 

As  black  as  a  berry! 
Blue,  you  ninny!   but  s'pose  we 
come  down  to  her  nose ! 

It's  as  funny  and  fat  with  an  end 
like  — 

Like  a  rose  ? 

]STo !  a  small  dab  of  putty  just  tint- 
ed with  pink ! 

Xow,  stoo-pid!  how  can  you!  I'm 
sure  that  I  think 

Nothing     nicer     than     roses     so 
dumpy  and  smug  — 

Pshaw!  you  mean  it's  aboo-ti-ful, 
boo-ti-ful  pug! 

Well,  you  naughty  old  Pete!  you 
can't  laugh  at  her  chin! 


Pete. 
Phil. 


Pete. 
Phil. 


Pete. 

Phil. 

Pete. 

Phil. 
Pete. 
Phil. 


Pete. 

Phil. 
Pete. 
Phil. 


Oh,  no,  it's  the  nattiest,  sauciest, 

sweetest  — 
The  nicest,  completest, 
Of  arch  little  chins,  with  a  dimple 

put  in, 

That  winks  up  like  a  sunbeam, 
And  then  her  wee  throat! 
Her  throat  like  egg-foam,   or  a 

syllabub  boat 

On  a  lake  of  clear  cream ! 
And  her  arms ;  they  are  nice  now ; 

there's  nothing  can  beat  them! 
So  plump,  round,  and  soft!  I'm 

most  ready  to  eat  them ! 
Of  course,  Phil,  you  kissed  her  ? 
Oh,  didn't  I! 
Well! 
Well,  I  put  my  mouth  down ;  I  had 

something  to  tell ; 
Ah !  close  whispered  «lose  in  the 

shy  little  ear, 
That  seemed  to  turn  up,  Pete,  half 

coyly  to  hear, 
And  again,  as  I  kissed  her  — 
You  blessed  the  good  Lord  for  so 

jolly  a  sister! 
Yes,  I  did! 
So  did  I! 
And  now,  Pete,  'tis  but  right 

We  should  go  in  once  more  and 

bid  "  Baby"  good  night! 


HOP,  SKIP,  AND  JUMP:  A  QUEER  TRIO 
PERSONIFIED. 

O !  Hop  is  a  sailor  used  up  in  the  war, 

With  a  single  good  leg  to  stand  on ; 
And  a  face  as  dingy  almost  as  the  tar 

He  was  wont  to  rest  his  hand  on : 
And  he  grumbles  strange  oaths  in  his 

hairy  throat 
Whenever  he  sees  a  fair  vessel  afloat, 
Especially  one  with  those  staring  round 
eyes 
(Port-holes,  you  know) 
Whence  the  hot  shot  flies 
At  a  quaking  foe ; 
For  then  his  anger,  it  fizzles  up 


374 


POEMS   FOB    CHILDREN, 


(Like  the  sputtering  foam  in  a  lager-beer 
cup), 
And  lie  hoarsely  cries, 
"  May  witches  fly  off  with  that  fellow  by 

whom 
l*m  reduced  to  the  cruel,  contemptible 
doom 
Of  tottering  all  day, 
In  an  imbecile  way, 
'Twixt  a  single  good  leg 
And  this  base  wooden  peg, 
Far,  far  from  the  spume 
Of  the  gay  ocean-spray ! 
80,  seize  him,  and  scorch  him,  and  fry 
him,  I  say! " 

But  Skip  is  a  mincing  lady  fine ; 

She    never  was  seen    to    breakfast    or 

dine ; 
And  how  she  lives,  none  knoweth; 
Her  waist  is  so  very  slender  and  thin, 
You  fear  it  must  snap,  and  topple  in, 

At  the  first  slight  wind  that  bloweth. 
Her  favorite  motion's  an  airy  jerk, 
With  her  eyeballs  raised,  and  her  chin 

a-perk, 
And  her  little  red  ringlets  bobbing, 
Bobbing  and  hobnobbing, 
In  a  friendly  fashion,  each  to  each; 
And  her  cheek  is  the  hue  of  a  delicate 

peach 
(That  never  a  shade  can  vary) ; 
" Perpetual  motion"   she's  sometimes 

called, 
And  really,  truly  one  feels  appalled 
To  view  her  galvanized  skipping, 
Her  dancing,  wriggling,  whipping 
Of  one  skirt  in  and  one  skirt  out, 
Her  general  manner  of  going  about, 
AVhich  lies,  I  ween, 
Half  pitched  between 
The  twittering,  fussy,  old-maidish  way 

Of  the  restless  jay. 
And  the  airs  of  a  sprightly  canary ! 

Jump  is  a  long-limbed  sturdy  boy, 
With   such   strong    muscles   to    back 
him, 


That  I  hardly  could  wish  the  creature 
joy 
Who  should  ever  dare  to  attack  him ; 
A  four-foot  fence  he  clears  in  a  minute ; 
And  if  you  bet  from  the  cottage  eave 
(And  a  very  tall  cottage  it  is  in  sooth), 
With  your  leave,  or  without  your  leave, 
That  he  cannot  jump 
With  a  dauntless  thump, 
And  a  thundering  bump,  — 
Be  sure  that  he'll  quickly  win  il ! 
And,  to  whisper  the  truth,  — the  fearful 

truth, 
I  believe  if  whale  or  dragon, 
The  one  on  sea,  and  t'other  on  land, 
(The  biggest  that  either  could  brag  on), 
Came  floating,  or  crawling  nigh, 
That  this  marvellous  boy, 
With  a  ringing  cry 
Of  fierce,  exuberant,  reckless  joy, 
Would,  just  for  the  fun  of  it, 
Make  a  swift  run  of  it 
Right    down    the    jaws    of     whichever 

dread  vermin 
The  turn  of  chance  or  a  thought  shoidd 
determine ! 

So  here  my  song  ends, 

And  ye,  charming  young  friends ! 

Don't  endeavor  to  pump 

My  dry  fancy  again ; 

'Tis  enough  I've  made  plain 

As  Tommy's  big  nose 

Looming  red  o'er  the  snows, 
Those   impalpable  ideas  of   Hop,  Skip, 
and  Jump! 


DANCING. 

Dancing!  I  love  it,  night  or  day: 

There's  nought  on  earth  so  jolly, 
Whether  you  straightly  glide  with  May,  . 

Or  madly  whirl  with  Molly, 
The  country  dance  is  smooth  and  sleek; 

But  waltzes  (some  call  vicious!) 
Bring  one  so  near  a  rosy  cheek, 

That,  Jack,  they're  just  delicious! 


DANCING. 


At  every  chance,  I'm  bound  to  go, 
Ami  join  our  "  West  End  "  classes, 

With  all  about  me  comme  ilfaut, 
To  captivate  the  lasses. 


I  think  they  rather  like  me,  Jack,  — 
(Oh,  dear!  the  pretty  creatures  I)  — 

One  shyly  praised —  behind  my  back- 
She  did —  my  Roman  features! 


"  Dancing  !    I  love  it,  night  or  day  : 
There's  nought  on  earth  so  jolly." 


Yet  somehow,  Jack,  the  loveliest  she 

(I  mean  sweet  Mary  Whimple) 
Has  never,  never  turned  on  me 

A  single  charming  dimple : 
But  when  I  try  the  least  advance, 

Her  smile  is  changed  to  sneering; 
Three  times  she  has  snubbed  me  in  the 
dance 

To  please  that  odious  Speering ! 


Ah !  Jack,  it  makes  my  bosom  swell, 

And  all  my  life  forlorner, 
To  think  (while  others  like  me  well) 

She,  she  should  be  a  scorner ! 
I  cannot  be  revenged  on  her, 

Xor  would,  if  able  even; 
But,     oh!     that    long-legged     Speering 
cur 

I  wish  he  was  —  in  heaven ! 


376 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


He  has  given  my  hopes  a  blighting  touch 

Though  lank  as  any  mummy ; 
And  as  for  mind,  —  I've  seen  as  much 

In  some  poor  pasteboard  dummy: 
But  then  the  best  of  girls  are  queer  — 

Titania  loved  a  donkey; 
So  Mary  airs  her  charms  to  snare 

This  awkward  ball-room  flunkey! 

Ha !  now  my  steam  is  all  blown  off, 

Once  more  1'  m  pleased  and  placid ; 
If  Mary  Whimple  still  will  scoff, 

Why  should  I  too  grow  acid  ? 
With  jovial  smile  and  heart  in  tune 

(111  humor's  best  disarmers,) 
See,  Jack,  if  I  don't  figure  soon  — 

Adonis  'mid  the  charmers' 


MOTES. 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
In  the  air  the  sunshine  mellows  — 
Green  or  yellow,  gold  or  brown, 
See  those  gay  capricious  fellows ! 
Sparkling,  glittering,  frisking,  dancing, 
Now  retreating,  now  advancing, 
Livelier  tban  the  jolliest  clown, 
Tinier  than  the  tiniest  fairy 
That  e'er  robbed  a  farmer's  dairy 
Of  the  luscious  cream  which  floats 
Round  his  frothed  and  brimming  bowls 
Buoyant,  tireless  little  souls ! 

Who  can  fold  them, 

Catch  or  hold  them  ? 
Evanescent, 
Omnipresent, 

Shy  eluders, 
Bold  obtruders, 
Past  all  joking,  most  provoking, 

Tricksy,  whisky,  frisky 
Motes. 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
Light  in  sunshine,  lost  in  shadow  — 
Green  or  yellow,  gold  or  brown, 
Over  hill  and  over  meadow, 

Swiftly  over 
Rock-ribbed  height  and  billowy  clover, 


Still  advancing, 
Still  retreating, 
Glittering,  fleeting, 
Never  dozing,  nor  reposing, 
But  forever  dancing,  dancing; 
And  in  numberless  quaint  fusions, 
And  eye-dazzling  convolutions, 
Deftly  sped 
Overhead  — 
See  (where  happy  sunshine  mellows 
All  the  air)  those  jovial  fellows ! 
Ah !  ye  tricksome  waifs  and  tiny, 
Who  may  circumvent  and  bind  ye  ? 
Can  it  be  such  creatures  antic, 
Unrestrained,  grotesquely  frantic, 
Are  but  small  nymphs  out  of  school, 
Laughing  at  all  graver  rule  ? 
Or  loose  sylphides,  bent  on  sowing, 
Sowing, 
Sowing, 
In  their  thoughtless  mirth  o'erflowing, 
Naughty  crops  of  wildish  oats  ? 
How  they  jostle,  whirl  and  hustle, 
Up  and  down,  up  and  down. 
Through  the  air  the  sunshine  mellows ! 
Green  or  yellow,  gold  or  brown, 
All  those  gay,  capricious  fellows, 
Evanescent, 
Omnipresent, 
Shy  eluders, 
Bold  obtruders, 
Past  all  joking,  most  provoking, 
Tricksy,  whisky,  frisky, 
Motes ! 


THE   GROUND  SQUIRREL. 

Bless  us,  and  save  us !    What's  here  ? 
Pop! 

At  a  bound, 
A  tiny  brown  creature,  grotesque  in  his 

grace, 
Is  sitting  before  us,  and  washing  his  face 
With  his  little  fat  paws  overlapping; 
Where  docs  he  hail  from  ?    Where  ? 
Why.  t!i  ere. 
Underground, 


ARTIE'S    "AMEN." 


377 


From  a  nook  just  as  cosy, 
And  tranquil,  and  dozy, 
As  e'er  "wooed  to  Sybarite  napping 
(But  none  ever  caught  him  a-napping). 
"  Don't  you  see  his  soft  burrow  so  quaint, 
lad !  and  queer  ? ' ' 

Gone !  like  the  flash  of  a  gun ! 
This  oddest  of  chaps, 
Mercurial, 
Disappears 
Head  and  ears ! 
Then,  sly  as  a  fox, 
Swift  as  Jack  in  his  box, 
Pops  up  boldly  again! 
What   does   he   mean  by   this   frisking 

about, 
Now  up  and  now  down,  and  now  in  and 
now  out, 
And  all  done  quicker  than  winking  ? 
What  does  it  mean  ?    Why,  'tis  plain, 
fun! 
Only  fun!  or,  perhaps, 
The  pert  little  rascal's  been  drink- 
ing? 
There's  a  cider  press  yonder  all  day  on 
the  run ! 

Capture  him!  no,  we  won't  do  it, 

Or,  be  sure  in  due  time  we  would  rue 

it! 

Such  a  piece  of  perpetual  motion, 
Full  of  bother 
And  pother, 
Would  make  paralytic  old  Bridget 

A  fidget. 
So  you  see  (to  my  notion), 
Better  leave  our  downy 
Diminutive  browny 
Alone  near  his  "  diggings  "  ; 
Ever  free  to  pursue, 
Bush  round,  and  renew 
His  loved  vaulting 
Unhalting, 
His  whirling, 
And  curling, 
And  twirling, 
And  swirling. 


And  his  ways,  on  the  whole, 

So  unsteady! 
'Pon  my  soul, 
Having  gazed 
Quite  amazed, 
On  each  wonderful  antic 
And  summersault  frantic, 

For  just  a  bare  minute, 
My  head,  it  feels  whizzing; 
My  eyesight's  grown  dizzy; 
And  both  legs,  unstable 
As  a  ghost's  tipping  table, 

Seem  waltzing,  already! 

Capture  him!  no,  we  won't  do  it, 
Or  in  less  than  no  time,  how  we'd  rue 
it! 


ARTIE'S   "AMEN." 

They  were  Methodists  twain,   of    the 

ancient  school, 
Who   always    followed    the  wholesome 

rule 
That  whenever  the  preacher  in  meeting 

said 
Aught  that  was   good  for  the  heart  or 

head 
His  hearers  should  pour  their  feelings 

out 
In  a  loud   "Amen"  or  a  godly  shout. 

Three  children  had  they,  all  honest  boys, 
Whose  youthful  sorrows  and   youthful 

joys 
They  shared,  as  your  loving  parents  will, 
While  tending  them  ever  through  good 

and  ill. 

One  day  —  'twas  a  bleak,  cold  Sabbath 

morn, 
When  the  sky  wras  dark  and  the  earth 

forlorn  — 
These  boys,  with  a  caution  not  to  roam. 
Were  left  by  the  elder  folk  at  home. 

But  scarce   had   they    gone  when    the 

wooded  frame 
Was  seen  by  the  tall  stove  pipe  aflame ; 


378 


POEMS   FOR    CHILDREN, 


And  out  of  their  reach,  high,  high,  and 

higher. 
Rose  the  red  coils  of  the  serpent  fire, 

With   startled    sight   for   a   while   they 

gazed. 
As  the  pipe  grew  hot  and  the  wood-work 

blazed : 
Then  up.  though  his  heart  beat  wild  with 

dread. 
The  eldest  climbed  to  a  shelf  o'erhead, 
And   soon,    with   a   sputter  and  hiss  of 

steam. 
The  flame  died  out  like  an  angry  dream. 

When  the  father  and  mother  came  back 

that  day  — 
They  had  gone  to  a  neighboring  church 

to  pray  — 
Each  looked,  but  with  half -averted  eye. 
On   the   awful    doom   which    had    just 

passed  by. 

And  then  the  father  began  to  praise 

His  boys  with  a  tender  and  sweet  amaze. 

'"Why.  how  did  you  manage.  Tom.  to 
climb 

And  quench  the  threatening  flames  in 
time 

To  save  your  brothers,  and  save  your- 
self?" 

"  Well,  father,  I  mounted  the  strong  oak 
shelf 

By  help  of  the  table  standing  nigh." 

''And  what.''  quoth  the  father,  suddenly. 

Turning  to  Jemmy,  the  next  in  age. 

"  Did  you  to  quiet  the  fiery  rage  ?  " 

'"  I  brought  the  pail,  and  the  dipper  too. 

And  so  it  was  that  the  water  flew 

All  over  the  flames,  and  quenched  them 
quite.'' 

A  mist  came  over  the  father's  sight. 
A  mist  of  pride  and  of  righteous  joy. 
As  he  turned  at  last  to  his  youngest  boy. 
A  gleeful  urchin  scarce  three  years  old. 
With  his  dimpling  cheeks  and  his  hair 

of  gold. 
"  Come.    Artie.    I'm   sure   you   weren't 

afraid : 


Xow  tell  in  what  way  you  tried  to  aid 
This  tight  with  the  fire."     "  Too  small 

am  I." 
Artie  replied,  with  a  half-drawn  sigh, 
"To  fetch  like  Jemmy,  and  work  like 

Tom : 
So  I  stood  just  here  for  a  minute  dumb, 
Because,  papa.  I  was  frightened  some  : 
But  I  prayed.    '  Our  Father,' and  then, 

and  then 
I  shouted  as  loud  as  I  could,  '  Amen.'  " 


THREE  PORTRAErS    OF  BOYS. 

Stup.dy  little  form,  of  true 

Saxon  pattern,  through  and  through; 

Face  as  purely  Saxon,  too. 

With  a  smile  demure  and  sly. 

Dimpled  cheek  and  twinkling  eye; 

Fiobin  head,  with  sideway  perk, 

O'er  some  cunning  ruse  at  work; 

Welcome,  lad !  of  wholesome  ways. 

And  true  juvenile  displays; 

Xow  progressing  at  full  speed 

On  your  gay  velocipede. 

(Yet  where'er  it  deftly  goes, 

Wronging  no  one's  dress  or  toes) ; 

Xow.  beneath  the  basement  hid. 

On  a  dwarfish  pyramid 

Toiling,  with  scarred  bricks  and  stone, 

After  methods,  all  your  own: 

A  small  Cheops !  scarce  less  shrewd 

In  your  purpose  and  your  mood, 

Than  that  king  of  mobs  and  mud. 

By  the  old  Xilotic  flood! 

Or  with  flying  scarf  and  hat. 

Coursing  some  half-frantic  cat. 

Fraught  with  wrath,  and  words  that  rail, 

Should  poor  Tabby  save  his  tail ! 

For  the  "  old  Adam's"  sometimes  seen 

In  your  actions  and  your  mien. 

But  no  more  than  must  appear 

In  his  undegenerate  heir. 

Grown  from  what  seems  nature's  plan, 
What  will  Henry  be  as  man  ? 
One  of  healthful,  mental  range, 
Honored  at  the  doors  of  'Change  ? 


THREE   PORTRAITS    OF  BOYS. 


379 


Of  a  quick  and  eager  mind, 

At  the  rise  of  fortune's  wind; 

Shrewd!      perchance     with     scores     of 

friends, 
And  productive  dividends  ? 

On  life's  middle  pathway  still, 

By  extremes  of  good  and  ill. 

Evermore  unvisited, 

.Shall  we  see  him  safely  tread  ? 

Not  ambitious  of  grand  things, 

Or  the  scope  of  eagle's  wings; 

But  within  the  limits  meet 

Of  his  unpretentious  feet, 

A  good  man,  perhaps  a  wise, 

Who  —  (in  ledger  of  the  skies), 

May  —  unsmutched  by  blots  of  blame, 

Find,  at  last,  his  honest  name  ? 

MARIOX. 

Urchin  of  the  Syrian  face, 
Anil  half  melancholy  grace, 
With  a  look  in  your  dark  eyes, 
Sometimes  deep  and  overwise; 
What  shall  be  your  mortal  doom  ? 
Desert  blight,  or  healthful  bloom  ? 
Shall  the  lily,  Virtue,  shine 
On  your  life,  made  thus  divine ; 
Or  Corinthian  roses  shed 
Poisoned  petals  on  your  head  ? 
Ah!  the  soul  that  dwells  in  you, 
Heaven  hath  blent  of  flame  and  dew 
Mixed  by  subtlest  art  together 
In  your  nature's  changeful  weather, 
Whence  a  lightning-glitter  warm. 
Now  and  then,  portends  a  storm ; 
Such  a  storm  of  tropic  strain, 
Scathed  by  fire  and  big  with  rain ; 
All  your  being  o'er  and  under, 
Thrilled  as  if  by  spirit-thunder; 
Till,  exhausted  at  the  source 
Of  its  wild  imperious  course 
Passion  —  like  a  blast  that  dies 
Down  the  slowly  brightening  skies, 
Thro'  loud  sob  and  weary  moan 
Falls  to  plaintive  monotone ! 

Strange  child-soul,  but  half  unfurled, 
Who  shall  scan  its  complex  world  ? 


Glimpsed  'twixt  light  and  shadow  dim, 

Dare  I  prophesy  of  him  ? 

Subtle,  mystical,  refined, 

Seem  the  thoughts  that  haunt  his  mind, 

While  large  forces  play  their  part 

On  the  boy's  embattled  heart, 

Stubborn  will —  it  irks  to  yield. 
Always  watchful  —  under  shield; 
Scorn  of  all  who  do  him  wrong. 
Keen,  implacable  and  strong : 
Yet  —  toward  the  fair  and  just, 
Love,    that's    crowned    with    generous 

trust; 
And  those  graces,  pure  and  high, 
Born  of  tender  loyalty ! 

With  a  firm  and  wise  control, 

Guide  the  currents  of  his  soul! 

Forceful  are  they,  and  must  ride 

Ever,  with  impetuous  tide, 

If  to  duty's  strand  they  flow, 

Fraught    with    all    pure    flowers    that 

blow, 
Or,  the  Syren's  lotus-lea, 
Fronting  death's  unfathomed  sea! 

HERBERT. 

Ah  !  you  tricksy  little  elf. 
How  you  idolize  yourself ! 
And  believe  the  world  was  made 
Like  a  gay-hued  masquerade. 
Just  for  you  to  sport  and  dance, 
Ever,  in  a  happy  trance ! 
How  I  envy  yrou  the  joyr 
Of  such  bright  abandon,  boy! 
All  your  buoyant  veins  are  rife 
With  the  sunniest  wine  of  life ! 
And  if  e'er  a  shadow  strays 
O'er  your  glad,  elysian  ways, 
'Tis  but  like  the  doubtful  mote 
In  the  morning's  eye  afloat; 
At  the  slightest  breeze  of  fun. 
Cloudless  is  your  spirit's  sun! 

Still,  my  tricksy  little  elf, 
Idolize  your  blissful  self; 
Dream  you'll  always  be  a  boy, 
And  that  life's  a  painted  toy, 


380 


POEMS  FOB   CHILDREN. 


Just  for  you  to  hasten  after. 
Full  of  thoughtless  mirth  and  laughter 
Soon,  alack!  how  grim  and  gram, 
Disenchantment" s  sure  to  come! 
Life,  with  which  you  loved  to  play, 
Slowly  turns  from  gold  to  gray; 
All  its  splendid  tints  are  lost, 
For,  experience,  cold  as  frost, 
Dims  the  hues  which  undefiled, 
Blessed  the  outlook  of  the  child ; 
And  we  learn  in  mournful  wise, 
Earth's  no  longer  —  Paradise! 


BIRDS. 


That's  the  dove,  my  darling! 
Murmurous,  soft  and  tender; 
There!  she's  mooning,  crooning, 
On  a  pine-branch  slender. 
And  ah!  it's   the  dove,  the  dove,  dove, 

dove, 
That  never  can  coo,  hut  she  pleads  of 
love, 
Of  love,  love,  love. 
In  the  shadows  fair  and  tender. 

That's  the  wren,  my  fairy! 

With  her  wee  love-pledges ; 
See  her  playing,  straying 
Underneath  the  hedges. 
And  oh!  it's  the  wren,  the  wren,  wren, 

wren, 
That  is  never  contented  too   far  from 
men, 
But  lives,  lives,  lives 
Secure  in  the  field-side  hedges. 

That's  the  thrush,  my  beauty! 

Hark !  and  let  us  hear  her, 
Yonder  swinging,  singing, 
Higher,  bolder,  clearer, 
And   oh!   it's   the   thrush,  the   thrush, 

thrush,  thrush, 
Whose  loud  song  wakens  the  noon-tide 
hush, 
The  deep,  deep  hush 
Of  the  meadows  and  wolds,  to  hear 
her! 


That's  the  ruockbird,  sweetheart! 

To  all  tones  beholden, 
Which  are  thrilling,  filling 
Glades  of  woodland  golden, 
And  ah!  it's  a  bird,  a  bird,  bird,  bird, 
The  sweetest  that  ever  a  mortal  heard. 
Ah!  sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 
In  the  sunshine,  fresh  and  golden ! 


THE    DEAD    CHILD    AND    THE   MOCK- 
ING-BIRD. 

Once  in  a  land  of  balm  and  flowers, 

Of  rich  fruit-laden  trees, 
Where  the  wild  wreaths  from  jasmine 
bowers 

Trail  o'er  Floridian  seas; 

We  marked  our  Jeannie's  footsteps  run 
Athwart  the  twinkling  glade; 

She  seemed  a  Hebe  in  the  sun, 
A  Dryad  in  the  shade ! 

And  all  day  long  her  winsome  song, 

Her  trebles  and  soft  trills, 
Would  wave-like  flow  or  silvery  low 

Die  down  the  tinkling  rills. 

One  morn,  midmost  the  foliage  dim, 

A  dark-gray  pinion  stirs ; 
And  hark!  along  the  vine-clad  limb, 

What  strange  voice  blends  with  hers  ? 

It  blends  with  hers  which  soon  is  stilled ! 

Braver  the  mock-bird's  note 
Than  all  the  strains  that  ever  filled 

The  queenliest  human  throat: 

As  Jeannie  heard,  she  loved  the  bird, 
And  sought  thenceforth  to  share 

With  her  new  favorite  dawn  by  dawn, 
Her  daintiest  morning  cheer! 

But  ah!  a  blight  beyond  our  ken, 
From  some  far  feverous  wild, 

Brought    that  dark    shadow  feared    of 
men, 
Across  the  fated  child ! 


THE  LITTLE    GRAND  DUCHESS. 


381 


It  chilled  her  drooping  curls  of  brown, 

It  dimmed  her  violet  eyes, 
And  like  an  awful  cloud  stole  down 

From  vague  mysterious  skies ! 

At  last,  one  day  our  Jeannie  lay, 

All  pulseless,  pale,  forlorn ; 
The  sole  sweet  breath  on  lips  of  death. 

The  mocking  breath  of  morn ! 

When    just    beyond    the    o'ercurtained 
room, 

(How  tender  yet  how  strong!) 
Rose  through  the  misty  morning  gloom, 

The  mock-bird's  sudden  song! 

Dear  Christ !  those  notes  of  golden  peal, 
Seem  caught  from  heavenly  spheres ; 

Yet  through  their  marvellous  cadence, 
steal 
Tones  soft  as  chastened  tears ! 

Is  it  an  angel's  voice  that  throbs 
Within  the  brown  bird's  breast  ? 

Whose  rhythmic  magic  soars,  or  sobs, 
Above  our  darling's  rest  ? 

The  fancy  passed,  but  came  once  more, 
When  stolen,  from  Jeannie' s  bed, 

That  eve  along  the  porchway  floor, 
I  found  our  minstrel  .  .  .  dead ! 

The  fervor  of  the  angelic  strain 
His  life-chords  burned  apart, 

And  blent  with  sorrow's  earthlier  pain, 
Broke  the  o'erburdened  heart! 

Maiden  and  bird !  the  self-same  grave 
Their  wedded  dust  shall  keep, 

While  the  long  low  Floridian  wave 
Moans  round  their  place  of  sleep ! 


THE   LITTLE   GRAND  DUCHESS. 

What  a  pure  and  chastened  splendor, 
What  a  grace  of  joyance  tender, 
Like  to  starlight  or  to  moonlight, 
Melting  into  fairy  Junelight, 
Sleeps  my  little  lady  sweetly,  — 


In  the  air  that  answers  meetly 
With  each  soul-illumined  feature, 
Which  the  lovely,  winsome  creature 
Lifts  toward  us  so  demurely, 
That  despite  their  candor,  surely 
Something  of  an  elfish  slyness 
Sparkles  'round  their  shadowed  shyness, 
Though  a  pose  that's  sometimes  stately, 
(Baby  brows  thrown  back  sedately,) 
Charms  us  by  a  look  that  such  is, 
She  might  be  a  wee  Grand  Duchess ! 

But  anon  that  aspect  changes, 
Through  all  moods  her  spirit  ranges. 
Free  and  far  as  Ariel  pinions 
O'er  a  warlock's  weird  dominions; 
Happy  fields  of  dim  romances : 
Woods  wherein  an  elve-troop  dances 
'Xeath  a  noon  of  splendid  trances, 
Culling  flowers,  or  chanting  lowly 
Songs  of  golden  melancholy ; 
Or  in  stretch  of  wildest  dreamings, 
(Holding  true  their  gracious  seemings,) 
Wafted  into  blissful  vision 
Of  some  rarer  realm  Elysian. 

Well  I  know  that  mark  the  yearning 
Through  her  snowy  eyelids  burning, 
Shadowed  by  those  midnight  lashes, 
(Quickly  closed  when  aught  abashes, 
And  as  quickly  flashed  asunder, 
When  swift  anger  lightens  under,) 
How  supreme  the  hidden  forces 
Blindly  struggling  at  their  sources 
In  her  depths  of  nascent  being: 
Insight,  but  half-born  to  seeing, 
Faint  perceptions,  intuitions, 
And  soft-murmuring  admonitions, 
Toned  and  mellowed  down  so  finely 
That  their  voices  breathe  divinely. 

Ha !  but  see,  our  dainty  fairy 
Freed  from  thought,  or  dreamings  airy, 
All  an  embryo  flirt's  beguiling, 
Wooes  us  in  her  roguish  smiling, 
Rippled  into  silvery  laughter, 
With  arch  glances  levelled  after, 
Coy,  coquettish,  gay.  capricious 
Sprite!  thy  every  mood's  delicious; 


¥2 


POEMS   FOR    CHILDREN. 


Yet  amid  these  spirit-phases 
Whereupon  thy  poet  gazes, 
There  is  one  that  steals  above  thee; 
Dewy  pure  from  heavens  that  love  thee 
'Tis  not  when  thy  heart  is  lightest, 
'Tis  not  when  thy  glance  is  brightest, 
But  when  sober  Contemplation 
Near  thee  takes  her  pensive  station, 
While  a  strange  ecstatic  epiiet 
Follows  on  thy  childish  riot. 

Lo!  her  trifling  fancies  vanished,  — 
Lo !  her  baby  bearing  banished, 
.She  has  grown  so  sweetly  earnest 
That  I'm  sure  the  harshest,  sternest 
Cynic  who  should  chance  to  meet  her, 
Must  with  fond  caresses  greet  her ! 
Introspective,  deep  surmising, 
Glow  her  eyes  like  moonbeams  rising, 
And  across  her  face,  where  wonder 
Seems  with  tremulous  awe  to  ponder, 
Smiles  a  glory,  as  if  angels 
Whispered  her  their  soft  evangels ! 

So  that  for  the  moment  losing- 
Time  and  place  while  on  her  musing, 
One  might  say,  this  eerie  creature 
Hardly  owns  our  earth-born  nature, 
For  she's  changeling,  fay  and  fairy, 
In  a  word,  all  things  that  vary 
Most  in  wizard  transformations, 
And  the  round  of  weird  creations ! 


HOLY  POLY. 

Roly  Poly's  just  awakened, 

Wakened  in  his  cosy  bed ; 
All  his  dainty  ringlets  tumbled 

O'er  his  shoulders,  and  his  head: 
Holy  Poly's  cheeks  are  rounder 

Than  a  dumpling  duly  done. 
While  they  look  as  rich  and  ruddy, 

As  a  freshly-dawning  sun. 

Roly  Poly's  keen  for  breakfast; 

Ah!  he  stays,  he  tarries  not, 
But  as  soon  as  mother's  breeched  him. 

Rushes  for  his  "  hot  and  hot"  : 


Such  huge  sups  of  oatmeal  porridge 

.Swallows  he  at  lordly  ease, 
That  I'm  sure  in  stout  digestion, 

He's  an  infant  —  Hercules! 

Roly  Poly  rises  briskly 

(When  repletion  bids  him  stop), 
Shall  he  take  his  kite  for  flying, 

Or,  go  out  with  cord  and  top  ? 
Xot  the  faintest  breeze  is  blowing, 

So,  of  course,  the  top's  preferred; 
Eagerly  he  hastes  to  spin  it, 

Almost  flying  —  like  a  bird ! 

But  unlucky  Roly  Poly 

Chooses  —  since  the  ground  is  hard  — 
As  the  fittest  place  for  spinning, 

Mother's  well-stocked  poultry-yard ; 
So,  what  time  his  mammoth  "  hummer  " 

Circles  on  its  nimble  pegs, 
Roly  feels  a  rearward  something 

Dabbing,  stabbing  at  his  legs ! 

Round  he  turns  in  vast  amazement, 

Round,  to  find  erect  and  free, 
Ruffled,  ireful,  a  great  gander, 

Quite  as  tall  ('twould  seem),  as  he; 
But  brave  Roly  Poly  battles, 

Knight-like,  on  his  sturdy  thighs, 
Battles,  till  the  treacherous  monster 

Leaves  his  legs,  to  smite  his  eyes ! 

Then,  must  Roly  fly  affrighted, 

Fly,  the  sudden  wrath  beyond, 
Of  that  ruthless,  base  aggressor,  — 

But  to  tumble  in  —  a  pond  ! 
Over  head  and  ears  to  tumble 

In  a  dark,  unsavory  flood, 
Bubbling,  doubling,  kicking  fiercely, 

Plucking  weeds,  and  grasping  mud! 

While  —  as  pitiless  fate  would  have  it  — 

Ponto,  panting  on  the  run, 
Thinks  that  Master  Roly  Poly  's 

Only  sought  the  pond  in  fun ; 
So,  he  dashes  in,  exultant, 

Paws  the  boy,  with  bark  and  bound, 
And  instead  of  gallant  rescue, 

Madly  rolls  him  round  and  round:  — 


"  Roly  Poly  's  just  awakened. 
Wakened  in  his  cosy  bed." 


THE  IMPRISONED   INNOCENTS. 


383 


When  a  gasping  groan  and  sputter 

Prove  to  Ponto,  shrewd  and  true, 
What  is  now  the  sacred  duty 

That  a  faithful  dog  should  do; 
See,  he  tugs  at  Roly's  trowsers, 

Tugs  with  steadfast  might  and  main, 
Till  he  brings  our  dripping  urchin 

Safely  to  the  shore  again. 

Ponto' s  teeth  are  sharp  and  potent, 

And  impelled  by  need  to  speed, 
They  have  made  poor  Roly  Poly 

In  no  stinted  measure  bleed ! 
Therefore,  with  his  gory  garments, 

And  his  mud-bespattered  knees, 
He  is  like  a  dwarfish  Sindbad, 

Sorrow-laden,  by  the  seas ! 

Oh !  to  ma  "   our  rognish  Roly 

Throw  his  fright  and  trouble  off  ! 
How  he  la-     s  at  dangers  vanished, 

With  his  merriest  boyish  scoff. 
Decked  once  more  in  spotless  trowsers 

How  he  makes  the  household  ring: 
Scours  and  scampers,  shouts  and  dances, 

Domineering  like  a  king. 

Doubt  not  that  at  lunch  and  dinner, 

Fervid  is  the  fork  he  plies ; 
Presto,  how  the  mutton  dwindles ! 

Gone  are  sweetmeats;  melted  pies! 
Not  one  drop  of  bygone  trouble 

Bitter  makes  his  cup,  or  can; 
Roly!  let  us  change  our  places  — 

I,  the  boy;  and  you,  the  man! 


THE  IMPRISONED  INNOCENTS. 
[Or  the  Complaint  of  a  Philosopher  of  Family  !] 

One  morning  I  said  to  my  wife, 
Near  the  time  when  the  heavens  are 

rife 
With  the  Equinoctial  strife, 
"  Arabella,  the  weather  looks  ugly  as  sin ! 
Observe,  how  those  mists  from  the  ocean 

begin 
To  creep  eastward  and  blend 


With  the  sickly  street  vapors  fantastic 
and  thin ; 

So,  {won't  you  attend?)  keep  the  chil- 
dren within, 

Safe-housed  from  these  damps  of  Sep- 
tember ! 

For  myself  —  as  I'm   studying  'Barret 

On  Drainage'  just  now  —  I'll  go  up  to 
the  garret, 

And  thus  will  be  barred  from  all  noises, 

And  tumults  of  infantile  voices ! 

(Please  listen,  my  dear!  I  am  speaking, 
I  think, 

And  put  down  your  baby!  he'll  drink, 
and  he'll  drink 

Warm  tea  till  he  pops!)  so  again  let  me 
say, 

Keep  the  juveniles  housed  on  this  treach- 
erous day, 

May  I  trust  you,  for  once,  to  remem- 
ber?" 

Then,    with    pain    (for    my  limbs    are 
rheumatic), 
I  slowly  climbed  up  to  the  attic ; 
And  all  the  'mid-stories  o'er  passed, 
Reached  the  dismal  old  garret  at  last! 
"  Now,"  thought  I,  "  no  echoes  of  riot 
Can  break  my  philosopher's  quiet; 
Thank  heaven !  all  luxuries  scorning 
Of  stuffed  couch  or  sofa,  — I'll  settle 
just  here  — 
(Though  perhaps  I  would  like  a  less  im- 
becile chair) 
And  be  deep  in  research  the  whole  morn- 


Alack!  for  all  bright  expectation! 

While  safe,  as  I  fancied,  from  worry, 

For  below  me  I  heard, 

Ere  my  choler  was  stirred 
First,  a  faint  indefinable  flurry, 
Then,    a    deep    roll,    and    thunder-like 

rumble, 
With  the  shock  of  some  terrible  tumble, 

Which  shook  the  whole  house  to  its 
basis ! 
In  a  trice  from  my  foolish  elation 

I  emerged  with  the  blankest  of  faces, 


3S4 


POEMS   FOB    CHILDREN. 


And,  well.  I  confess  as  a  Christian  I  erred 

Caught  —  as  in  spite, 

But  who,  my  good  sir,  or  good  madam! 

And  held  on  to  it  tight, 

Could  have  throttled,  (just  then),  the 

As  a  new  patent  trap ! 

"old  Adam"  ? 

But  worst  of  all,  he  had  thumped  his 

I'm  afraid   that  I  muttered   a  some- 

head, 

thing 

Thumped  his  head  and  maltreated  his 

That  ought   to   have   rested   a   dumb 

nose, 

thing! 

(Hence,  the  sanguine  stains  that  dis- 

Yet before  your  stern  censure  you 

figured  his  clothes!) 

urge  on. 

And  yet  after  all  the  ado, 

Bethink  you!  the  same  term  's  been 

We  managed  to  rescue,  and  bring  him 

uttered 

to, 

Quite  roundly,  not  stammered  or  stut- 

On his  pipe-like  pegs 

tered, 

Of  ridiculous  legs, 

By  good  men  from  Edwards  to  Spur- 

To  set  him  up  in  the  general  view, 

geon ! 

No  longer  flecked  by  a  crimson  hue, 

So,  pray  don't  confuse  me, 

But,  a  trifle  black  and  a  trifle  blue ! 

But  kindly  excuse  me, 

If  once  in  a  justified  passion, 

Behold  me,  once  more  in  the  garret ! 

I  followed  their  clerical  fashion, 

This  time  with  the  door  barred  fast, 

(Albeit  much  modified  too!) 

And  locked  by  a  rusty  key, 

And  whispered,  not  shouted,  a  d n! 

(As  if  one  could  banish  trouble, 

By  making  one's  fastenings  double! 

Of  course,  to  the  doorway  I  scurried, 

"Here's  peace,"  quoth  I,  "  at  last! 

And   down    the   old    stairs   from  the 

One  row.  and  a  row  of  such  degree, 

attic 

Is  surely  enough  'till  twilight!  " 

(In  spite  of  my  twinges  rheumatic), 

And  so,  'neath  the  garret  sky-light, 

Incontent  hurried! 

Again  I  pored  o'er  my  "  Barret" 

Having    reached   the   back   parlor,  I 

("Barret  on  Drainage,"  I've  said), 

trembled, 

With  calmer  nerves  ami  a  cooler  head ; 

Alack!  now.  with  fear  undissembled, 

Determined  to  compass  the  topic, 

For  Jacky  all  spattered  with  gore, 

In  a  mode  most  philosophic, 

Lay  flabby  and  flat  on  the  floor ! 

And  launching  a  sudden  shot, 

A  pestilent  urchin, 

Lightning-swift,  and  fiery  hot, 

Who  stood  much  in  need  of  promis- 

Through an  article  terse  and  satirical, 

cuous  '  birchin ' 

Those  foolish  savants  to  bring  down, 

With  his  tricks  and  his  manners  un- 

Who with  theories  basely  empirical, 

stable, 

Had    so    startled    and    shocked   the 

He  had  taken  to  tipping  the  table, 

town ! 

(A  rickety  table,  though  heavy  as  lead), 

And  succeeded,  the  mischievous  elf! 

Ah!  soon  in  order  beautiful, 

In  tremendously  tipping  himself ! 

To  a  masterly  logic  dutiful, 

And  then  the   big  board  like  an  un- 

My thoughts  were  ranged  for  fight ; 

loosened  rafter, 

I  was  making  here  and  there, 

Came  sundering,  blundering,  thunder- 

A note  on  the  fly-leaves  bare, 

ing  after, 

When  horribly  higher  and  higher, 

Gave  his  pert  shanks  a  majestical  rap, 

Uprose  the  shout  of  "  Fire ! " 

And  one  fat  little  thumb, 

In  a  monstrous  dumb  affright, 

Bound  as  a  plum. 

I  hardly  walked,  but  fell, 

THE  IMPRISONED  INNOCENTS. 


385 


(As    it    seemed),    from    the    garret's 

To  enter  again 

height. 

On  that  morning  of  pain : 

(Though  how,  I  could  never  tell!) 

I  should  wretchedly  blunder 

I  alighted  beneath  to  find 

In  counting  the  number 

In  the  parlor  a  spark  half  out, 

Of  times  I  was  harried 

Which  the  feeblest  puff  of  wind 

(My  thoughts  all  miscarried!) 

From  the  chimney  had  blown  about 

By  yells  of  shrill  laughter 

But  the  children  still  would  shout, 

Or  dread  cries  thereafter, 

And  dance,  and  prance,  and  bellow. 

By  accidents  seen  or  invisible, 

In  a  deafening,  demonish  rout, 

And  mishaps  high  tragic,  or  risi- 

While as  for  their  mother,  low  and  limp, 

ble; 

She   lay,   in   a   faint,   by   the   opened 

Young    Tommy     three     window-panes 

door, 

shattered, 

With  her  eighteenth-monther,  a  restless 

And,  of  course,  cut  his  head  in  the  proc- 

imp. 

ess, 

Drawing  and  pawing  o'er  and  o'er 

And  an  old  silver  heir-loom 

The  folds  of  her  rumpled  dress ! 

That  oft  held  the  rare  bloom 

Somebody  in  years  gone  by, 

Of    vintages    mellow    and    lusciously 

Had  pronounced  her  fainting  pose 

fine 

The  ne  })lus  ultra  of  loveliness, 

From  the  banks  of  Moselle  or  the  banks 

As  she  lay  like  a  sweet  white  rose; 

of  the  Rhine, 

But  now !  perchance,  perchance, 

A  tankard  four  centuries  old  and  no 

I  have  lost  my  young  romance, 

less, 

For.  unadmiring  quite, 

By  wee  Janet  was  battered, 

I  gazed  on  the  touching  sight, 

Disgraced, 

And  (I'm  a  brute  no  doubt!) 

And  defaced, 

But  I  let  the  syren  lie. 

Till  the  Bacchus  Cellini  had  graven  there- 

Ah me,  the  vexations, 

on, 
Was  broken  and  wan, 

Exasperations, 

And  the  sweep  of  the  vine,  and  the  curve 

And  tribulations, 

of  the  grape, 

Confusions, 

Were  twisted  hopelessly  out  of  shape. 

Obtrusions, 

And  endless  affrays, 

Then  Harry  fell  down  in  the  cistern! 

Which  marked  with  dark  tracing  that 

With  yells  to  be  heard  for  a  mile, 

'blackest  of  days! 

And  in  striving  to  fish  him  out, 

Don't  tell  me  that  children  are  angels, 

(For  the  boy  is  portly,  puffy,  and  stout) 

All  fraught  with  pure  heaven's  evan- 

Back would    he  slip,  and    slip,   and 

gels, 

slip, 

And    trailing  —  what    is    it!  —  from 

E'en  from  the  cistern's  utmost  lip, 

some  mystic  star 

Until  with  a  wrench  swift-handed, 

Bright  cloudlets    of  glory.     I   know 

The  human  gudgeon  was  landed, 

what  mine  are, 

Who  made  with  a  ghastly  smile 

Not  a  whit  worse  I'm  sure  than  the  rest 

The  half-inarticulate  pledge, 

of  young  "fry," 

That  never  more  would  he  tempt  the 

Whose  natures   are  thoughtless    and 

edge 

spirits  are  high ; 

Of  well  or  cistern,  fount  or  river, 

But  as  for  your  "angels!"  all  that's 

Although   upon  earth  he  should  dwell 

"in  my  eye!  *' 

forever: 

386 


POEMS   FOR    CHILDREN. 


And  lastly,  Cornelia,  aged  five, 

What  is  the  moral  of  this,  my  masters  ? 

(I  marvel  the  child  is  still  alive! 

(To  you  that  are  fathers,  I  mean, 

Contrived  in  the  subtlest,  deftest    way, 

Fathers,  and  students  as  well  ?) 

From  the  surgery  shelf,  to  steal,  in 

Tis  easy  enough  to  tell), 

Play, 

Would  you  'scape  all  household  disas- 

A box  of  my  pills  cathartic; 

ters  '? 

Enough  (if  swallowed  at  once)  to  slay 

And  be  cosy,  sweet-tempered,  serene  ? 

A  bear  of  the  regions  Arctic ! 

Then  never,  never,  never, 

How  many  she  took  I  cannot  say, 

Make  the  absurd  endeavor, 

But  thereafter  for  many  and  many  a  day, 

Because  the  sky's  not  bluish 

Supine  the  suffering  maiden  lay, 

And  the  wind  seems  somewhat  shrew- 

And I  scarce  believe  that  her  blood  has 

ish, 

set 

To  pen  a  young  regiment  in, 

To  the  shore  of  health  that  is  perfect,  yet ! 

Of  heirs  to  Adam's  sin! 

Boston  Stereotype  Foundry,  4  Pearl  Street. 


JSP 


Kslitill^^lllllj 

ill 


*^sts 


^avj(,'  igi  ^b^fcji^j 


